Wind

At night the wind knocks on her windows, softly, insistently first, then frustrated banging full force. Let me iiiiiin. Let me iiiiiiiiiiin. The old oak tree a low groan. The window panes shudder in their frames, no match for the onslaught. Ice cold drafts slip in through the cracks, uninvited, unwelcome.

There's something oddly comforting about staying up late studying, Simon on her lap, space heater emitting a seeping warmth, tucked in her tiny study nook jutting out over the house entrance. Starless cloudy pitch black night, waves of wind pummeling the house.

Later, trying to fall asleep, she lies in bed listening, wistfully wishing the wind was a person, a Romeo serenading her from below. She drifts off into fantasy, arms wrapped tightly around her blanket