by the sun, and from below, by blood-warm water, and a generator starts turning over somewhere in the middle, hidden in the mist. With the right conditions, a storm system can sustain itself for days, living off its own combustion, an engine of friction and mass.
Itâs just a few days old, at this point. It wonât live more than a few weeks, but it can either go out with a whimper, or with a bang.
This one can go either way.
It moves in a wide, slow sweep over the water. A wall of white cloud, drifting gray veils. No rain makes it to the ocean below; the engine sucks it back up, recycling and growing.
As the moisture condenses inside the clouds, conditions get strange. Intense energy sends water into jittering frenzies, producing even more power. The clouds darken as they grow denser. As they crawl across open water they are getting fatter, spreading, spawning, and that engine at the heart of the storm stores up power for leaner times.
And still, itâs really nothing. A summer squall. An annoyance.
But now itâs starting to know that itâs alive.
Â
T WO
By the time we broke up the Great Mall Trek of 2004 for lunch, Sarah, Cherise, and I had enough shopping bags to outfit an Everest expedition, if the climbers were planning to look really, really adorable and hang out extensively at the beach.
Sarah had always been a natural-born clotheshorse. Not as curvy as me, and with the kind of perfect angular proportions that sparked envy and were held up as examples by plastic surgeons to keep them in the lipo and sculpting business. Life with the French Kiss-Off (as I decided to title Chrêtien) hadnât ruined her, except that she had some lines around her eyes, a good haircut gone bad, ugly shoes, and a generally sour attitude about men. A nice toning lotion took care of the lines. Toni & Guy bravely addressed the hair issues. Prada was very willing to practice some accessory therapy. I didnât think anything could possibly help her with the attitude, except massive applications of chocolate, which with her figure she wouldnât accept. After half a day of it, I was ready to send Sarah to the Bitter Ex-wives Club for an extra session of getting in touch with her whiny inner bitch.
âHe was a lousy lover,â she declared, as she was trying on shoes. She had perfect feet, too. Long, narrow, elegantâthe kind of feet men liked to think about rubbing. Even the salesman, who surely must have had his fill of stinky, sweaty toes, was looking tempted as he held her by the heel and slipped her into a strappy little pointy-toed number. Personal service. It only happened at the best stores these days, but then, he was trying to sell her shoes worth more than your average television set.
âWho?â Cherise asked, inspecting a pair of kitten-heeled pumps. She must have missed the entire ongoing monologue about the flaws of Chrêtien. I stared gloomily at the ruby red pair of sandals Iâd been saving up for, which were likely to go out of style and come back again three generations from now before I could actually afford them again, at the rate Sarah was shopping.
Not that I hadnât asked for it. And it was in a good cause. But I really needed to introduce her to the concept of outlet malls.
âThe ex, of course,â Sarah replied, and tilted her foot to one side to admire the effect of the shoe. It was, I had to admit, very nice. âHe had this terrible habit; heâd do this thing with his tongueââ
Okay, that was too much information . I shot to my feet.
âI really donât think Iâm ready for this level of sister-bonding. Iâm going to get a mocha. You guysâshop.â
Sarah smiled and waved. As well she should. She had my Mastercard in her purse, and I had exactly ten dollars and change in mine.
Being the younger sister sucked .
As I walked away, Sarah was amusing the shoe salesman and Cherise with an account of something
Itâs just a few days old, at this point. It wonât live more than a few weeks, but it can either go out with a whimper, or with a bang.
This one can go either way.
It moves in a wide, slow sweep over the water. A wall of white cloud, drifting gray veils. No rain makes it to the ocean below; the engine sucks it back up, recycling and growing.
As the moisture condenses inside the clouds, conditions get strange. Intense energy sends water into jittering frenzies, producing even more power. The clouds darken as they grow denser. As they crawl across open water they are getting fatter, spreading, spawning, and that engine at the heart of the storm stores up power for leaner times.
And still, itâs really nothing. A summer squall. An annoyance.
But now itâs starting to know that itâs alive.
Â
T WO
By the time we broke up the Great Mall Trek of 2004 for lunch, Sarah, Cherise, and I had enough shopping bags to outfit an Everest expedition, if the climbers were planning to look really, really adorable and hang out extensively at the beach.
Sarah had always been a natural-born clotheshorse. Not as curvy as me, and with the kind of perfect angular proportions that sparked envy and were held up as examples by plastic surgeons to keep them in the lipo and sculpting business. Life with the French Kiss-Off (as I decided to title Chrêtien) hadnât ruined her, except that she had some lines around her eyes, a good haircut gone bad, ugly shoes, and a generally sour attitude about men. A nice toning lotion took care of the lines. Toni & Guy bravely addressed the hair issues. Prada was very willing to practice some accessory therapy. I didnât think anything could possibly help her with the attitude, except massive applications of chocolate, which with her figure she wouldnât accept. After half a day of it, I was ready to send Sarah to the Bitter Ex-wives Club for an extra session of getting in touch with her whiny inner bitch.
âHe was a lousy lover,â she declared, as she was trying on shoes. She had perfect feet, too. Long, narrow, elegantâthe kind of feet men liked to think about rubbing. Even the salesman, who surely must have had his fill of stinky, sweaty toes, was looking tempted as he held her by the heel and slipped her into a strappy little pointy-toed number. Personal service. It only happened at the best stores these days, but then, he was trying to sell her shoes worth more than your average television set.
âWho?â Cherise asked, inspecting a pair of kitten-heeled pumps. She must have missed the entire ongoing monologue about the flaws of Chrêtien. I stared gloomily at the ruby red pair of sandals Iâd been saving up for, which were likely to go out of style and come back again three generations from now before I could actually afford them again, at the rate Sarah was shopping.
Not that I hadnât asked for it. And it was in a good cause. But I really needed to introduce her to the concept of outlet malls.
âThe ex, of course,â Sarah replied, and tilted her foot to one side to admire the effect of the shoe. It was, I had to admit, very nice. âHe had this terrible habit; heâd do this thing with his tongueââ
Okay, that was too much information . I shot to my feet.
âI really donât think Iâm ready for this level of sister-bonding. Iâm going to get a mocha. You guysâshop.â
Sarah smiled and waved. As well she should. She had my Mastercard in her purse, and I had exactly ten dollars and change in mine.
Being the younger sister sucked .
As I walked away, Sarah was amusing the shoe salesman and Cherise with an account of something
Similar Books
