Jaime has always admired storms.
The drops of rain, pounding delicately on glass. The darkness and silence, punctuated by sharp crackles of light and growling songs of thunder. The leaves, liberated, dancing free from their masters. The water, running, always running, for days and days later - running from what, she doesn’t know. What could frighten water?
She’d imagined lions, made of strange electricity, plummeting to earth in snaps of lightning and roaring with their frustration. She’d imagined great eels, writhing and sizzling, and invisible elephants, and creatures made entirely of teeth and eyes and bone. She’d imagined something that could make water tremble, and quake, and pound on windows, begging for entrance into inhospitable homes.
She’d imagined something that could make water afraid.
She had admired it. She had imagined it dancing, wildly, strangely, and danced alongside it.
But she is, at this point, thoroughly annoyed by the weather, abstract admiration or no.
It had started out as a drizzle, and, as drizzles do, it had progressed to a downpour. The downpour had sniffled, wheezed, drawn in breath, and eventually started sneezing out lightning. The trees, annoyed, had started wildly thrashing around, like toddlers flailing toys; the wind, offended, had begun howling and blowing her around like it thought she was a candle on its birthday cake.
She’s hoping to find shelter for the night, but at this point she isn’t holding out much hope.