Blue Skies

“I have my people,” he said with a smile.

She grinned back at him, slowly closing her eyes and breathing up towards the sky. It had been a while since she felt such warmth on her skin. Somewhat delayed, she inserted her witty response. “Ah yes, your ‘people.’ The ‘weather people.’” Her hair wisped around gently.

“See for yourself,” he said, pulling out a small black book from his skinny jeans. His striped shirt almost seemed too hip to be true, but he pulled it off. At least, it seemed that he didn’t calculate it. That meant “pulling it off” for her. He casually handed her the book, the first page reading “August 28th: crisp air, some sun.” She flipped through a few pages. They all had a vague description of the weather written down.

She decidedly turned to the present day, “February 17th: blue sky, just warm enough to start melting the snow.” She kept her hand on the page, standing still and looking around at her environment. Blue sky was present. And the snow was just beginning to melt. The hope of spring felt close by.

Five more weather entries followed for the rest of the week. He looked back at her, noticing she had stopped for a moment, observing the book, then her surroundings, the book, her surroundings…

“See, my people,” he said with a smile. She smiled back, instinctually, but not fully understanding what he was trying to tell her.

They continued to meander down the paved pathway – she still with the book in hand, he still with his blissful smile. He was purely delighted to be with her. To be sharing this moment with her, out in the sun. To be sharing himself with her.

She caught up to him, handing him his book back. A few more paces, and she finally confessed, “I’m not quite sure what you mean by this book.’” He was silent. “You enjoy writing the weather down…? Predicting it…?” She looked for some indication of a response. He lowered his head, realizing now that she didn’t actually understand him as deeply as he had hoped, had projected, she had. Regardless, he felt brave and encouraged to further explain.

“I decide the weather,” he stated.

“Right,” she blurted out with a small chuckle. This was part of the flirtatious game, right? Although her joy could do nothing but bring a smile to his face, he tried to stifle it, remembering what he had just told her, what she had just expressed to him. He stared at the ground, growing disappointed in himself, her, the whole situation. She noticed.

“Sorry, I…you mean, you believe you control the weather?”

Calmly, he exhaled, “I don’t believe. I know.” He felt disappointment. Sadness. “The book is simply the way I communicate with my people as to what and how the weather should be. For the next five days. Always.”

***

They arrived at the station. She didn’t know what to say. She resolved to keep it light.

“Alright well, can you please have it be two degrees warmer tomorrow, and 20 more on my birthday?”

“You got it.” He smiled, this time with a hint of melancholy. He had made this mistake once before and knew that no kind of relationship would work between them anymore; he had told her too much. As she entered the car, he rectified his error, “I’ll bet you $20,000 I can.” However, again, he knew: Goodbye.

On the train, she looked around. And then, to avoid eye contact with the other passengers, looked upwards. Up at the advertisements. Sunshine in a cup. She wondered what he had meant, or what he was trying to convey with his small weather book. What an odd fellow…and she liked him for it.

The next day, it was two degrees warmer.

A few days passed, and she didn’t hear anything from him. She tried calling. Texting. Nothing. She even tried to casually walk around his neighborhood, hoping to run into him. She didn’t know which house, building, shack…was his, otherwise, she would feel compelled to knock, most definitely. She deserved a reason for his silence.

More days passed and she felt her emotions deepening, uncontrollably. Hurt was at the core. Frustration, confusion, and anger all boiled up in response to it being there, sitting in her stomach like a peach pit. A rotting peach pit of hurt, just like the one she often felt whilst growing up. “I guess this moment of growth isn’t any different,” she concluded in thought. She slowly began to digest.

***

He had thought about her often. He had opened her messages many times, to feel something. He awaited her birthday, anxiously. He desperately wanted to make it precisely 20 degrees warmer for her on her day, and for a possible understanding from her of him. Maybe they could be together one day. He hoped momentarily.

His mind then reluctantly darted to the non-disclosure agreement. “Yes, yes, yes…I know,” he counseled himself. He had chosen this life and to give up a “normal” life. Instead, focusing more on the atmosphere, the environment, and the Earth, as a unit. No one besides his colleagues could know who determined the weather. The long journey to gain his title as Weather-Sayer in his home region made that very, very clear. There was never to be any other option. Plus, a downpour is not what his city needed at the moment.

He finally regained his selflessness, as if coming back up from the depths of the entrancing ocean that selfishness could be. The small black book laid, vibrantly, on the table; he moved towards it, knowing it was now time to write to Headquarters for that $20,000.

The day after her birthday, she received a padded envelope. Inside it, a sturdy card made of a heavy paper weight and her name letter-pressed onto the front of it. On the back, was a simple, handwritten, “With love,” alongside twenty thousand dollars.