The storm hasn’t come. It feels instead as though the sky has lowered, the purple clouds around our shoulders and in our ears like all too much barometric pressure. We are going about our day, our hands doing business through the tense dampness, my limbs like old rubber bands ready to snap on anyone I touch or back, ineffective, against me. Everything is creaking or stretching, inexplicably pliable or brittle and painful.
I am stuck, somewhere in the middle, between bending and breaking, my nerves white like knuckles before they pop. I can’t find anything that I want to eat, nothing I want to drink. Everything I put on my body feels scratchy and heavy, there is no music I want to listen to, no photos I want to take. My bed is uncomfortable, his body too hot, his limbs too heavy, his breath exasperated and close, like too many purple clouds around my shoulders and in my ears.
I am waiting, continually inhaling. For the break.