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A NOTE: Okay, so this is a long story that starts a little slow, which is to say it is not a "wham, bam, thank you, m'am" kind of deal. Sorry about that if that annoys you, but too many years as an English major have ingrained in me the value, no matter what, of character and plot development. Hopefully there are those of you will enjoy it as a story in its own right; if not, just scroll on down and get you a little somethin-somethin. It's there; I promise. Thanks.

It was early Monday evening when news of the impending storm first reached us. I remember the weatherman on the television, his puffy face contorted into what he must have imagined to be a very serious-looking frown, rambling on in great detail about it while I was making dinner, but I was only halfway listening. Dinner wasn't much--a steaming bowl of Spaghettios, in fact--but no one ever really pays attention to weathermen anyway; they fuck up your plans often enough and you just start to tune them out. Out the film-streaked window of my apartment, the January sky was cold and gray over Fifth Street, but no more so than might be expected for the time of year.

"Yeah, whatever, smart guy."

I sighed and flipped the button on the set, sending Mr. Weatherman and all his well-meaning concern spiraling away into blackness as I collapsed onto the sagging couch with my text book. Storm, shmorm. I had a calculus test tomorrow regardless. ...

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