Sweat, Stagger, Stroke

The sky is glaringly blue and filled with fluffy, drifting clouds. Except for the wilting heat, there's no sign of a storm but the old pit bull is restless. He whines and pushes against me until he's securely wedged under my desk, his liquid brown eyes anxious with with anticipation, his considerable bulk trembling. A half hour later, the sky is black, the wind is high and the rain is pounding on the roof like a handful of hammers. There's little I can do to comfort the old dog. He cringes with each crack of lightning and tries desperately to burrow into the floor with every crash of thunder. After several minutes, I ease down under the desk with him and wrap my arms around him, holding tightly and trying to reassure him.

Another half hour and the skies are back to blue. The old dog emerges from his hiding place and shakes off his fear, nudging me fiercely to go outside and alternately bestowing head butts and sloppy kisses. He holds no grudge against the storm and it makes me wish that humans were as easily forgetful or half as resilient.

That evening I'm sitting in a bar and watching a band so bad it's painful. It's loud, it's raucous, and about as harmonic as nails on a chalkboard. The lead guitarist, who I fear will never know the benefits of sobriety, has a distinct and very noticeable tremor in one hand, his fingers waver in front of but often do not touch the guitar strings. He leaves the stage with one foot dragging clumsily and the right side of his body badly skewed and off kilter as he tries to compensate. He's drenched with sweat and there's a sour smell as he passes me. When he glances my way, I see his eyes are twitchy and his face is in ruins. I doubt he even sees me. I'm not sure he sees anyone.

“Christ, it's hot,” he mumbles to no one in particular.

No one answers. No one even notices. He shuffles unsteadily out to the sidewalk, alone and oblivious. His days of resilience are behind him.