I passed through the darkened kitchen last night, the wooden floors cool under my bare feet, and I almost felt like I was home. We are starting to relax into the space.
Random things remain misplaced and the entire spare room is nothing more than boxes that have disgorged themselves like a wall to wall carpeting of crap. But the guest room is finished, completely. Even the bed is made.
"How you doin'?" asked my husband, suggestively wiggling his eyebrows at me, from the pool.
I was doing fine, settled in my camp chair with an ancient, coverless Alistair MacLean in hand. He (the author) was expounding on the virtues of a Colt 45. MacLean does expound on things so very well. He's captured my attention on the build and function of various English Navy ships, for goodness sake; paragraphs and paragraphs of information given in such seductive language that I learn despite myself.
But Keith, my small arms weapons expert, vied for my attention, and would not give me any peace until I got into my suit and joined him. It was the first time we went in the pool.
Two minutes later, massive, pelting raindrops came flying like hail out of the sky. The storm's been raging now for about an hour or so. Keith's contingency plan is to hide in the laundry room, so we are on standby for evacuation. I don't think it will be necessary this time around; the rain is tapering off, no longer falling in thick sheets of water.
This is going to be a fun summer. I'm glad we got this house. Who knows how long we'll be in Georgia? Who knows what kind of house we'll get next time? Might as well live life deeply right where one is at, and a hundred foot long, eight foot deep, in ground pool adjacent to one's bedroom certainly facilitates that enjoyment. (I asked Keith for its dimensions; that's how I know.)