Peter

Peter turned from his computer screen and stared out of the 4th floor window.  The sky was grey and rain had started to fall.

Peter hated the rain.  He hated the way that it saturated his entire being.  How it flattened his hair that he had spent the morning sculpting.  He hated the way it seeped through his shoes and soaked his socks.  But then Peter also hated the sun.  He hated how the blue skies seemed to mock him as he sat inside.  He hated the permissions that blue skies seemed to give to the general populace.  How it allowed people to lose all sense of decency and decorum.  How they would sit in the park, swigging cider and kicking a football or throwing a frisbee.  And the flesh; the expanse of white, pasty celtic flesh that people felt it was necessary to share.  The stomachs that hung over the tops of jeans and the beer bellies covered in downy hair.  The tattoos that everyone seemed to have, from the aggressive bulldog and flags to the pretentious symbols meaning hope and peace.  And the children that had been indulged far too much; wheezing on their new scooters or bikes, clutching a rapidly melting ice-cream and wearing clothes that would have been inappropriate on the doughy parents.  Peter hated the sun more than he hated the rain.

But thunder storms.  Peter dreamed...wished for a thunder storm.  He always knew when they were about to happen.  The sky became bruised, yellowing and sore.  Then came the low growl of thunder and then the sky burst.  Rain fell, but not normal rain.  Rain like bullets from on high, as if the clouds hid snipers.  And then the lightening that illuminated the land, as if taking a picture.  He liked to stand in the thunder storm as people hurried past him like insects running back to their nest.  He sometimes wished that lightening would strike his office, cutting through the polystyrene ceiling and the harsh strip lighting.  He imagined his colleagues being caught in the electrified web; their manicured nails and peroxide hair glowing, the air filling with the burnt smell of Lynx deodorant and the latest perfume from Britney Spears.  He smiled at the thought of their heavily made up faces and Gilette smooth chins vanishing in the blue haze...

Peter turned from the window and looked back at the computer screen.  But what was the point of dreaming. 

The End

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