craic o' doom

The butcher's boy is walking up Morris Street in the rain to make a delivery. He does it about this time every Thursday. Most people hunch their shoulders when they're out in the wet but he walks straight and tall. He's a nice kid. I saw him in the back of the shop when I was buying a pork chop earlier today. Looks the world right in the eye and there's an excitement in his at the possibilities life might offer. It's black in the west and in the south but not as black as it was earlier. About eleven one of those thunder cracks that lift you out of your seat sounded right above. It's okay, I thought, the computer hasn't blown. Now it's shiny green after-the-storm light. A sip of wine, a drag on a panatella: suddenly I see the shape of my life spread out before me. As never before. In the mind's, not the world's, eye. I can see it! Well, the details don't matter and the end is obscure, as I suppose it must be, though closer. It's a beautiful thing to know. I sigh. Pure happiness.