I lay in bed, reading quietly. The window, inches from my head, sounds with the tiny noises of raindrops drumming against the glass and the sill below like so many popcorn kernels popping. Through the pillow, the muffled sound invades my ears and reminds me of the sound of hunger, of my stomach growling, or of the sound of gas bubbles making their way through my intestines. For some reason, those two things sound the same. As I half listen to the rain and hear this sound of hunger and pre-flatulence, I feel myself getting nauseous.
It’s not just the sound that nauseates, it’s the idea, the feeling. I am alone, in this room far from home, there is no one here that will come to drink hot cocoa and tell stories about the times the rain spoiled their birthday party or car accidents they were involved in caused by rain-slick roads or how nice it is to curl up in an easy chair in front of the fire when the weather starts to make one depressed. There’s just me, the wind howling and distracting me from the pages of my book.
I wrap myself in the covers, but I can’t seem to get warm. No, that’s not right, I’m sweating, I must be warm. I just can’t get comfortable. I turn to one side, then the other, letting the blankets ooze under my body, cocooning myself in warmth, but it’s not enough to warm my thoughts.
I read the last sentence again, then I read the whole paragraph again, then I read the whole page again, and each time I finish I realize I don’t remember anything about what I just read. Did anything important happen to the characters? Did anyone die? Was anyone born? I think I would remember something like that, so I decide none of that happened and I continue reading. I push through to the end of the chapter and close the book, knowing that tomorrow I will pick it up and read the whole chapter again.
All the while the nauseating rain drums the windows, beating out the steady music of stormy weather.