There was a storm coming. It was going to be a bad one.
Om could feel the humidity on his skin, the condensation teasing the hairs on his upper arm into a standing position. It meant he had to take the cows in early, before they were properly fed, which in turn meant the milk would be bad. His wife would be displeased. Though, there was hardly ever a time when she wasn’t.
He and his wife had a relationship like the sea; turbulent and two-faced. The waters would be calm one moment, almost gentle, lapping at his toes like an obedient dog. Then something would stir them up, riling them, teasing them higher and higher and higher until they crashed on him and wouldn’t release until he begged for breath using waterlogged lungs.
The first few drops of rain fell. He could feel it on his skin, and saw it on the grimy paint of the white picket fence he was leaning on. The sky was darkening.
He sighed, the dense air lingering in his throat. Thunder cracked as he looked back towards the cottage he shared with his wife. He knew she would be in there, pacing about, just waiting to complain as soon as he walked through the door. You said you would buy this. You haven’t paid for this. This is all your fault.
Glancing out at the sky one final time, he thought back to the packed suitcase under his bed. The single, one way bus ticket for tonight. The new apartment waiting for him in the city.
There was a storm coming, but Om wouldn’t be around to see it.