Ditches were turned into midafternoon streams, and water dripped from trees and arose in a spray from passing cars. Thunder would boom seemingly at the treetops, a whoomp that would make you duck and would leave teacups rattling in their saucers. Dogs scampered for cover. Then a crack of lightning hit with the force of a detonation, and the windows vibrated and the lights flickered and died, leaving only the sound of rain drumming on the tin roof. In these desultory afternoons, we threw open our curtains and watched the rain roll across the yard in sheets, bringing a malaise of depression and uncertainty and poverty and the sense of being a thousand miles away from the rest of the world. In Rome or Manhattan people were going to work in offices and chatting on the Internet and having cappuccino. Here the phones were down, the country was collapsing, and diversions were scarce. Bookstore shelves were lined with cheap paperbacks, celebrity memoirs, and last year’s novels that had been popular with distant, richer people.
What do You think about Love In The Driest Season?
