STANDING IN the darkening bedroom between the king bed and the huge window, I watch it raining.
Between me and that window is a love-seat equipal and its matching single seat, both dark green, the first furniture I bought in Mexico years back.
The green is cloth, which differs from the more common cowhide you see on most equipal furniture. I had the set special made in Guadalajara, and it took ages to get here.
It’s fading now, the back, due to abutting that open window. I’m fading too but for other reasons. Time.
The rain bounces off the monster aloe vera just to the left and the leaves of the golden datura straight ahead.
My child bride is at the gym, so I’m standing solo, waiting for her, which I do many evenings. If she’s not at the gym, she’s swapping family tales with her sister.
She’ll be home before 8.
I’ll have two big salads made, our supper we enjoy on lounge chairs upstairs while watching something on Netflix.
Dull old people in the mountains of Mexico.
This has been going on for years. Sometimes it’s raining and cool. Other times it’s dry and cold. And yet other times — springtime — it’s dry and stuffy.
But now it’s raining and cool. I stare out the window and wonder, how did this happen? It’s good.
When I get up in the middle of the night for a wizz, I often pause at the bathroom window to see the streetlight and the mountains if the moon is out.
How did this happen?
It’s said that life is what happens while you’re making other plans. This is usually understood to be negative, but sometimes plans pale in the face of sweet, accidental reality.