It was the day after a cracker of a storm that started with a pooling wind, cooling; that took not half an hour to ribbon through the heat she felt on her walk home.

From city through park, past the resting race track, along the maroon and dark green terraces, up the dirty blond sandstone steps, along the quiet back streets to home. With the red door.

A collection of sweat in between her chest wiped into her shirt, she turned the key and tiredly but jubilant dumped her bags; hands held in the air for a second not sure if she believed it was the end of the week. Yes.

Fridge opened, swirling mist softly bellows out. A glass of water, poured, gulped. Essential. Another then rested. She splashes her face at the sink, goes out the back to be greeted by her ginger moggie, no, and looks up at the sky. So grey against the buildings. Historic, blistered, turned into multiple abodes. The staircase twisted awkwardly once and she splashed water from her glass on the way up but did nothing but notice. It seeped into a dark spot like age on an elephant’s skin.

Through her room and onto the east facing terrace verandah. It sloped so much she would never bring a child there but she sat in the corner, sipping. Slightly tilted forward she allowed her breath to ease as the changing breeze swelled more. Brown leaves below her rustled on the street in between wheels and green leaves accompanied by bright yellow tufted flowers with buoyant bees retreating, rustled right beside her. The grey got greater.

The storm was coming and she watched.

Thinking how wonderful it will be to hike post-storm tomorrow. Everything thick and heavy with green. The sea just lightly churning at the rocks.

Written for the Necessity edition of the Seaside Writing Waves in your Inbox.

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