"Weather Report," Chris Laing

She storms into town yesterday like an Alberta clipper and smothers me with such a snow job that I’m still digging out.

We meet in the bar at the King Eddy and sip a few Howling Hurricanes, twirl our umbrellas, then a few more, and wham-bam we’re in her penthouse suite, a high-pressure area with a low ceiling.

“Fix us a couple more while I get comfy,” she says, taking off her Van Allen belt and everything else. “Isobar’s through there.”

In the bedroom, I know it’s true love when we form an occluded front and my dew point almost reaches saturation. Oh man, goes without saying, in these extremes of climatological conditions, a guy experiences oxygen deprivation. Or something.

I awake this morning in a vacuum. Search the suite for my lady love – in vane. Check the heel of my right shoe where I tuck away my rainy-day money – gone with the wind. Sneaking down the back stairway to an area of lower pressure, I’m nabbed by the manager waving the room bill.

“She said you’re understanding, sir. Fair and mild was how she put it. Sign here.”

I sign. I smile. I’m fair and mild, after all.

I read her note. “Morning, Sunshine,” it says. “I’m still on cloud nine. Ta, ta.”

I ask the manager, “What name’s on the register?”

He grins. “Betcha can’t guess.”

“Betcha I can.”

We extend imaginary umbrellas and sing, “April Showers.”

*

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