The forecast called for rain, 100% chance, but outside my window was a blue chalkboard of a sky, wiped clean. We'd had a picnic planned, but canceled. I'd never heard anything predicted with such certainty; I've watched downpours listening to reports of the likelihood of rain, the possibility. It looked, felt, like the first or last days of a long summer. The beginning or end. I watched out my window, unsure what outcome was more likely, unsure what outcome I was hoping for.
I pulled my blinds, got in my car, drove. I wanted the expanse of sky to open up above me like the road below. I wanted to find that moment the weather changed, where forever finally ended. I drove, forgot what I was looking for.
Aaron Burch edits for a small lit journal and, sometimes, writes small fictions.