We opened the garage door and walked out to stand on the driveway.  Only a few short hours before, the sky had been clear and blue as far as one could see, yet now dark cumulus clouds gathered on the horizon and expanded in our direction fueled by the afternoon heat.  Although no thunderstorms had yet formed, the air was thick with humidity and the smell of tempests to come.

Derek looked at me inquisitively as he lit his cigarette.  After taking a long drag from it, and while it dangled from his lips as smoke wisped silently from between them, he asked, “Is it supposed to rain?”

Only minutes before I had completed checking the weather details at NOAA.  Coincidences abound, I figured, and his question was timely.  I briefly looked up at the sky and turned to the west where gathering giants indicated a distinct possibility.  As an avid and amateur weather buff, he knew I would be up to date on the chances of precipitation as well as the details of what was happening in our neck of the climatological neighborhood.

“There’s a dry line west of us and a lot of instability from the heat,” I responded.  “Although we’ve had a temperature inversion over us — you know, the Mexican Plume — it seems to have weakened.”

I paused momentarily and sipped from my beer.  The wind blowing around us was warm and only a fraction less uncomfortable than the ominous wetness of the air that was like standing in a hot cup of tea.  With my adult beverage held firmly in my hand, I wiped the sleeve of my tee shirt across my brow to sop up some of the sweat now dripping over my entire form.  I completed the motion with yet another sip from the dark ale that seemed much warmer now than just a few minutes before.

Derek remained silent during this maneuver.  There was no doubt his sharp intellect realized a strategic pause deserved respect should one stumble upon it.  I was peripherally aware of him lifting the cigarette to his lips and slowly drawing on the filter, a movement to which he was completely unaware, before dropping it again to his side as he exhaled the smoke with great enjoyment.

I lowered the bottle from my lips and continued.  “If I remember correctly, there’s a surface low pushing toward us that will drag the dry line and a cool front with it.  We’ll be right in the middle of a trifecta, so to speak, and there’s obviously plenty of heat and moisture to work with.”

He followed my gaze toward the west, the direction from which this supposed attack would surely progress, and both of us recognized the increase in cumulus clouds in both number and size, and there on the horizon of trees and buildings in a position ever nearer to us stood rapidly developing cumulonimbi with dark power welling up within them.  I immediately knew the sight as that of a severe thunderstorm developing, something we certainly were familiar with here in the middle of Tornado Alley.

“Well—”

I immediately interrupted.  “Any storms that develop could rapidly become severe.  The atmosphere is ripe with support for it.”

For only a second, he looked as though someone had hit him with a two-by-four.  It was a dazed look.  I know he was not confused.  That would be very much unlike him.  It was instead an unspoken question that required a response.

“If the timing is right, severe thunderstorms will form near us.”  I gestured my head in the direction toward which we both now looked.  “But they’ll only help if they develop west of here.  Otherwise, they’ll move too quickly toward the northeast and will miss us.”

I brought the beer to my lips yet again and swallowed fully from its contents.  Yuck.  It was definitely getting warmer.  With only a few gulps left in the bottom, I decided not to let it get any worse.  I lifted the bottle upright and let the taste wash over my tongue.  Yum.  That feels better, even if it was a tad too common in temperature.

The bottle fell to my side as my arm went limp with sudden disinterest.  Then, I supposed, I needed to go inside and get another one.  I had no interest in moving, however, and felt most comfortable standing here watching the weather take shape, a translation of the possible into the probable.  The corner of my eye suddenly became aware of Derek turning to look at me.

I could in no way deny knowing precisely his mood by the smirk that enveloped his face.  How I loved that wit of his, the sarcasm that would pour forth at all the right moments.  After another quick drag on the cigarette, he dryly asked, “So, is it supposed to rain?”