stormrent

The clouds were building and were one rub off a rumble. Static vibrated the air and the cat was jittery, pacing across the rug but then careering at speed, eyes wide, tail bushy, tail-end jerking differently to its head, making it contort.

His head pounded with the pressure and his gut trembled with the anticipation of its power, coming and going. Mrs Thomas' curtains were already closed, to the lightning about to strike down.

The world around him was shrinking, accumulating above him in a meteorological swirl and as hailstones were hurled in rageful force at the roof, he gathered a blanket around him, lit the fire and watched the TV resist the weather's wave attack.

He would just need to wait it out, the rending.

***

He felt wrung out.

His life had been torn in two and as he looked at the focaccia he'd ordered, he was reminded of a warm memory of a shared bread at a restaurant, two hands reaching in to take a piece. They had both taken what they wanted considerately, rending that loaf right down the middle, a jagged edge but relatively equal. Then, the bread had been a symbol of shared time, shared intimacy, shared love. No rancour caused that separation.

It was giving.

The hands that had ended his marriage were grasping and had snatched at everything they touched, taking it covetously for themselves.

He was spent and raised a glass to the single life as he tore into his bread.