We fought about living in the country and my frustration in dealing with our neighbours whom I called Morlocks based on the primitive brutes that harassed the Eloi in H.G. Well's novel, The Time Machine.
Our farmer neighbours definitely seemed to me to be out of touch and behind the times.
Anyway, that’s how it went, day in, day out for two years, until finally Quinn did see it—but not the way I hoped.
I was aiming to move back to the city.
But we didn’t move back—she moved out. Then came the lawyers’ papers. Finally, I caved.
I decided she could have it—the house in the country and all the Morlocks that went with it.
I’d take the contents of my study and go back to civilization—where people didn’t look at you funny if you ask for a latte, and where they don’t roll up the sidewalks every Sunday, or close shop at five p.m.
So, here I was, truck backed up to the house, trying to load my stuff before it rains.
By the way, did I mention the incessant strong winds and the storms in Big Sky Country? Don’t ask—so many wasted nights with no power and no internet—the house lit by candles as if we were back in the 19th century—which we were.
Well, that’s all over now.
There’s a loud thunderclap and the first few raindrops splatter the walk like black cherries.
I groan and sit back on the stairs, staring through the open door as the rain gleefully pelts down—exacting its last ounce of revenge.
They were forecasting a big storm—I warned Quinn—but she was adamant. We agreed on Friday as my moving day, and that was that.
I get up to close the door when I see Quinn’s Jeep bouncing down the dirt lane. That’ll be a mess, I muse bitterly—the lane will be impassable in a matter of minutes. Hell, forget about getting my stuff out—I may be stuck here all night.
I’m contemplating my options, while cursing the weather gods who preside over the County, and the Morlocks duly submitted to their whims.
Quinn jumps out of the jeep with an armful of packages and tries to make a mad dash for the door. Unfortunately, her lovely cowboy boots slip on the ooze and she ends up flat on her rear.
I want to laugh, but that would be fatal. Instead, I rush out into the downpour and skid on the mud, ending up on my rear beside her.
“Nice move,” she laughs.
I had two options—I could have laughed with her, or I could have laughed at her—but I didn’t. No, stupid me, I ran out to rescue her and ended up bogged down in her mess.
As usual, I might add.
“C’mon,” I say, helping her up. “You’re soaked to the skin. I hope your nice leather boots aren’t ruined.”
She takes my hand and comes up beside me, leaning into me, the way she always does.
I feel a momentary pang as she nestles close to me. She fits right beneath my shoulder like my old guitar.
I know her huge brown eyes are staring up at me, so I look away and grumpily pick up her packages. I don’t want her to see the mixed feelings stirring inside me.
We get inside and shut the door just as a loud boom sounds and the power goes out.
Welcome back to hell, the weather gods grumble above us.
Can things get any worse?
