One of those Norwestern blankets of pure-freshening dampness overlays the sky, making the shrubs sag with weariness. Little pellet raindrops bounce downward, bouncing like popcorn in a popper, trying to escape the catalyst of its own being. In Founder's Hall a pretty girl decorates the balcony with fake roses for tomorrow's wedding reception. The weather will probably be like this. I can imagine a happy, shy Vanesa with hair falling apart and make-up smeared and runny from the wet air. Chris's hair will be perfect and their smiles will be perfect. Otherwise, all will by runny and in need of ironing or otherwise sag in quiet drowning.
Randy vacuums the lobby, just like he did yesterday, just like he will everyday for the next three months--steadily, not impatiently. That is inner solice and patience on his face. I misinterpretted it at first for complacency. Now I see the reflection of a saint's face in his eyes. He has taken something to heart. Work, work, work. And that is what summer is good for: the sky burdened with growth, saturated with gatheredness, finally is made ready for pouring. Tonight, libation and marriage is at one with the weather here in our earthly residence. Not only does the cup run over, it tastes good as well. It is enough to make one stop questioning certain natural laws and realize how wine was invented and why it tastes sweet and makes the head spin.
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