Mudlark
“With it came one of those low fronts from the Gulf of Alaska that sweep rain into the Pacific Northwest at a rate drought-stricken Californians envy even as they make rude jokes about the climate.
I woke around nine when the wind gave our French doors a sharp rattle. Jay mumbled something and rolled over. After a drowsy pause I got up and wedged the doors tighter. Rain spattered the glass. I closed heavy winter drapes over the privacy curtain. The big room was black as night. Jay made a satisfied noise and burrowed deeper in the covers.
We had got to bed around two. I lay for a while beside my warm husband hoping I'd fall back asleep, but it was far too late. I'm usually up by six-thirty. I rose, showered, and pulled on jeans and a thick plush top. I had not yet reached the point of wanting to go for a run in a downpour.
Freddy had finished the printout. It lay in a neat stack on the kitchen table.
Human nature is very weak.
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