music of the spheres

The last hundred miles of the drive south was accompanied by a violent crushing of rain that soaked through the highway-carved landscape in moments. Leading up to it, the afternoon drive had been beneath skies dark as midnight. Ominous, for sure, and this was not lost on Will—each passing white line brought with it some sort of approaching dread. A lot of nervous drumming on the steering wheel, and a light sheen glistening on his forehead that was thick and sticky beyond the rising humidity as the miles ticked south.

But the storm—it was an exhale and as Will took the exit, his skin cooled and he turned up the radio and quit counting the miles. The weekend would be good. A new landscape in which to settle his still smoldering youth in that first post-collegiate summer, the romance and promise of his graduation cap still hanging cut out crisp in the midwest skies of his university. Yes, the ripeness of it all, though slightly soured by recent and awful heartache—a dousing in fresh experience would amplify the speed and noise and promise of the next chapter. Welcome to Asheville—the sign standing over a town spread out like a blank white page and he sped toward it while the rain kept coming. The sky was determined to wash away a mess before anyone saw.