She knitted. I read. Two Queen Ann chairs faced the window separated by an end table with two cups of coffee. Beyond the window, rain as far as the imagination could carry.
It was a Fall rain. It sprinkled on the deck overlooking the small lake that lapped against its pilings. The gray sky did little to dull the brightness of the maples bordering the shores, red and yellow like a blazing fire. The rain was steady as a heart beat with little to no variation; small drops like the tears of God and angels endlessly splashing on the deck, lake, and roof. The sound was like an endless draw on a chorus of violins.
Behind us the crackle of a low fire in a stone fireplace, just enough to chase away the chill and dampness.
“How long did the weatherman say it was going to rain?” she said.
“Forever,” I said.
“They are getting more accurate at weather these days,” she said.
“I hope so,” I said.