Write about thunderstorms.
We were driving to Nashville—arguing about something I don’t remember, probably that didn’t want to go and I had forced her, tricked her, manipulated her into the four-hour drive and weekend away—when the storm hit. Just before, I had noticed the wet road, the puddles on the shoulder, the dewy grass, and thought maybe they have sprinkler systems along the highways in Tennessee. Then, it got misty ahead. Then, it was sprinkly. Then, it started to rain harder and harder until it was as if God was standing over the highway with a bucket pouring it all over us.
The windshield wipers were whining loud but I still couldn’t get a clear sight of the black pick up truck ahead of us. I slowed to 60 then 45 then 40, craning my neck to the window and squinting past the water but it was worthless. You just couldn’t see. I started worrying about floods.
Faster than it started it stopped. The windshield wipers were whining for nothing and the truck ahead picked up speed. The shoulders of the road were dry and the grass dusty. I looked to the rearview mirror to see the moving patches of darkness dancing within the storm.