I hate you, Mr. Ex.
But I hate you more when it rains.
I was in a hurry to buy my own place. The Little Missus (she was still "Miss" then) had already slept in our bed. She'd cooked in my kitchen, stuffed her leftovers into our fridge. The candles on the dining room table were burned lower, and two empty ice cream dishes flaunting pink plastic spoons basked on our patio. A bar of sandalwood soap perfumed our shower.
Yeah, I was in a hell of a hurry to make my escape. Running for my life, I looked at twenty townhouses searching for the one that could accommodate two big dogs. I pondered hallways and elevators, stairs and patio walls, neighborhoods and parks. It was September. An easy time in Southern California to forget about rain. In September we think of wildfires and smog and is the heat ever going to break, and why do some people say "Santana" while others call those evil winds "Santa Anas" and we know it doesn't really matter because we're all thinking of The Devil and praying that hell hasn't burst through some fault line to colonize the City of Angels. In September.
I didn't notice the place I chose had no kitchen door. No island of tile or linoleum on which to coral a soggy dog.
And now it's another December. My patio is a sewer.
And I wish you were floating in it.