Storm’s Comin’

“Storm’s Comin’. Be here soon,” he said, his basso voice scratchy from a pack a day habit. He’d finish his smoke, flick the butt into the street and head back inside once the first drops had fallen.

He was never wrong.

His name was John, and he sat in front of our office at Thomas Circle most afternoons. He was worn down by life, a grey beard against a dark face. He looked prophetic, his eyes intense and driven, his appearance looked like he’d been without sleep for some time dealing with some level with the angels and demons that haunt us all. But he was never wrong. Without fail, the drops would fall, heavy and menacing, on the pavement.

I didn’t see John again after we moved our offices down to 13th Street. But I remember his words on afternoons like these.

Storm’s comin’. Gonna be a good one, too.

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