For a charcoal veil to fall and belay the actual time of day. Sheets of rain and thunder; bottles on shelves occasionally clink together with the strength of it.

To lay across a worn wooden counter and listen, and smell, and watch: tinks and clinks, must of dust on boxes, rush of "fresh" from under the door. For the wood to feel warm against the cheek- for the leaves to look cold outside.

To experience storm.

And one man came in that afternoon, plastic parka dripdripdripping on flecked, tan linoleum. Thud, the scotch dropped on the counter. Aberlour, Speyside, highlands, 12 years, forty-two forty-seven. A conversation about single malts and human nature and other things that didn't and don't matter. Parka dry upon leaving, the door clicked behind him- The sky opened up.

The sky opened up like a scene. Light, and beams of light through the windows and reflections of light on raindrops and reflections of light on bottles.

To find blue bottles sparkling the loveliest-

I wondered if I was happy.