BY CHRIS LAING
Copyright is held by the author.
SHE STORMED into town yesterday like an Alberta clipper and smothered me with such a snow job that I’m still digging out.
We met in the bar at the King Eddy and sipped a couple of Howling Hurricanes, twirled our paper umbrellas, then a couple more, and wham-bam we were in her penthouse suite, a high-pressure area with a low ceiling.
“Fix us a couple more while I get comfy,” she said, taking off her Van Allen belt and everything else. “Isobar’s through there.”
In the bedroom, I knew it was true love when we formed an occluded front and my dew point rose. Oh man, goes without saying, in these extremes of climatological conditions, a guy experiences oxygen deprivation. Or something.
I awoke this morning in a vacuum. Searched the suite for my lady love — in vane. Checked 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 smiled. I signed. I’m fair and mild, after all.
I read her note. “Morning, Sunshine,” it said. “I’m still on cloud nine. Ta, ta.”
I asked the manager, “What name’s on the register?”
He grinned. “Betcha can’t guess.”
“Betcha I can.”
We extended imaginary umbrellas and sang, “April Showers.”