She sat, curled like a kitten, upon the windowsill — staring out into the premature darkness that forebode a storm.  The sky was an electric blue tinged with purple too pure for pigment, yet even as she watched it blackened… as if someone were pouring India ink into a blue glass bottle.  She thrilled to the scent of rain promised by the gusts of wind that billowed the curtains around her.  She thrived in a storm.
    Yawning delicately, she stretched with a languorous indulgence, and put a tentative bare foot onto the floor behind her.  She sighed and stood up, working a kink out of the small of her back.  Flipping her long blonde hair over her shoulder impatiently, she took one long last look out of the dormer window at the now grackle-black sky, shot through with the electric lace of lightning.
    She turned from the window and padded to the kitchen, absent-mindedly stooping to pat the big orange cat as she passed him.  In the kitchen, she searched through cluttered drawers and cabinets for the supply of tapers that she had stored somewhere after the last big rain.  With the ancient wiring in this old house, the slightest disturbance in the atmosphere killed the lights, and besides… she rather liked the eerie patterns that the candle flames threw on the walls and ceilings.
    The cat had followed her into the kitchen, and now it threaded between her legs mewling plaintively.  She laughed softly, with a sound like the tinkle of the coming rain, and opened a can of tuna fish for the cat.  It licked her bare toes in thanks, and then daintily nibbled at the fish.  She squatted on her haunches, with her head resting on the crossed arms supported by her knees, and watched the cat eat.
    From the other room, with a sound like sails whipping in the wind, the curtains danced in a fresh gale.  Then the rain descended with the uncompromising crash of a guillotine.  She uncoiled to her feet, and padded in to shut the window before it soaked her sketch-pad, which lay beneath the open casement.  She gazed out into the building storm, once more entranced by the vision of uncontrolled fury raging before her.
    As she stood with her forehead pressed against the cool glass, the anticipated power failure hit.  Shaking her head, as if at a mischievous child, she walked unerringly into the kitchen and lit several candles, scattering them throughout the apartment like tethered fireflies.
    Humming softly to herself, she unearthed her recorder from a pile of laundry, and curled up on a pile of pillows where she could watch the storm.  The cat came a sat on her feet, fastidiously washing his whiskers to remove all traces of dinner.  She began to play a haunting tune which was both inspired and created by the majesty of the storm before her.  As she played, she began to feel a part of the deluge.  She played, the cat purred, and the candles melted….

---

    Hours passed, or maybe only minutes;  she drifted away on the stream of notes, losing all track of time. She swam against the current of the music -- returning reluctantly to reality -- as a loud banging reverberated beneath the noise of the storm.  A trifle angry at being torn so roughly from her dream-world, she dropped the recorder onto the cushions and went to the front door.
    She opened the door without a second thought.  On the doorstep stood a giant of a man who dwarfed her slight frame.  Water ran in rivulets from his stringy hair and beard, mingling to create pools in his pockets.  He pushed past her into the room, despite her protests.  She stood in the open doorway, fright beginning to raise a tiny head in her heart — but she kept her gaze impassive.
    “Shut the door,” he snapped.
    “Get out of my house,” she answered levelly.
    He bellowed with laughter.  “Look, dollface — do you think I’m gonna give up this warm, dry place just because you tell me to?  Because you asked me nice?”  He poked through the things in the shoulder bag slung over a chair.  “You got any cigarettes?”
    “I don’t smoke.”
    “Too bad.  How ‘bout cash?”
    “Not on hand.”
    “Shit,” he growled, throwing the purse across the room at the cat, and hitting him squarely.  The cat yowled, and dashed under the divan to hide.  He laughed uproariously at that, and her fright died instantly — replaced by the usual, familiar disgust.
    “Why did you do that?” she asked flatly.
    “I hate cats.”
    “If you want money, I’ve got about five dollars in quarters for the laundry.  Or I can write you a check —”
    He shook his head in bewilderment.  “Are you really as stupid as you pretend?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Forget it.  Got anything to eat?”
    “Just tuna fish for the cat, and bread and cheese for me.  I’m semi-fasting this week.”
    He sighed gustily, as if to clear his head of her cobwebs.  “Any beer?”
    “Just water.”
    “Guess it will have to do.  Get me a tuna fish sandwich and a glass of water,” he ordered, then threw himself down on the pile of cushions, ruining their satin shams with his rain-soaked clothing.
    She seethed, but went into the kitchen and opened another can of tuna.  She pulled down some bread and spread it thickly with the fish, then took it to him, along with a stein of water.
    “Thanks.”
    “You’re not welcome.”
    He snickered at her feeble defiance.  “What’s your name, dollface?”
    “Genevieve,” she lied.
    “Pretty.  Mine’s Hank.”
    “So?”
    “Now look, we can make the rest of our encounter here a pleasant experience for both of us, or a really nasty one for you.”
    “What do you think you can do to me?”
    “Want I should show you?” he hissed, throwing aside the half-eaten sandwich and fluidly rising to tower above her.
    She gazed up at him through hooded lashes.  A sardonic smile curved the corners of her mouth.  “You can’t touch me.”
    He grabbed her shoulders with bruising force.  “Oh yeah?  What about this?”
    She laughed, brittle as splintering glass.  “Oh, you can hurt the shell.  But you can’t touch me.”
    He snarled like a wild animal and threw her to the floor.  Savagely, he ripped her shift and forced her knees apart.  She merely stared at him passively, that strange smile frozen on her lips.  He swore, and slapped her viciously.  Her head rocked under the blow, but the smile remained fixed.  Hank dropped his pants and forced himself into her.  He rode her like a satyr, rolling off when he finished, panting with emotion and spent lust.  She drew her torn smock around her and stepped over him.  Going into the bathroom, she washed herself methodically, brushed her hair, and slipped into a fresh dress — all without making a sound.
    Then she reentered the den.  “Get out.”
    He propped himself on an elbow and stared at her in amusement.  “You’ve got to be kidding, Gennie, honey.”
    “Get out.  Now.”
    He stood up and hitched up his jeans.  “Listen, you little bitch —”
    She flinched instinctively at the word.
    “I just raped you.  The minute I leave, you’ll go straight to the cops.  Why should I be stupid enough to leave now and let you do that?”
    She pulled a revolver from her pocket.  “This is why.”
    His eyes widened in shock.  “Hey lady...”
    She smiled her enigmatic half-smile at the change in his vocabulary.  “Get out,” she repeated coldly, “before I blow off that little item you’re so proud of.”
    “You’re crazy!”
    “May be,” she shrugged.
    He edged toward the door, never turning his back on her.  “Okay!  Okay, I’m going!”
    “Don’t worry, Hank.  You aren’t worth reporting.”
    He jerked the door open and ran out into the rain that still fell in heavy sheets.
    She pulled the trigger of the empty revolver.  “Bang,” she whispered.  Then she tossed the gun onto the divan and went down on her hands and knees to coax the cat out into the open.
    “Here, kitty, kitty,” she murmured soothingly, finally getting a hand around the shivering animal and pulling him gently from beneath the sofa.  The cat mewed piteously and licked her face.  She chuckled, and sank onto the sofa beside the gun, fondling the cat until he calmed down.  Then she gave him the remains of Hank’s sandwich, draining the stein of tepid water herself, grateful for the feel of the liquid trickling down her dry throat.
    She wandered over to the window, perching again on the windowsill and staring out into the storm.  She lay her cheek on her hand, humming tunelessly as she watched the surging clouds speed by.  As for Hank, he didn’t particularly bother her.  It had happened before.  It would probably happen again.  That was the way of stormy weather….
 
 

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