A Dark and Stormy Time

Sexual content

It was a dark and stormy night. Martha awoke with a start at the sudden sound of thunder. She shakes her partner awake.

“Hey Frank—Frank—Frank—”

Frank was an older, middle-aged, younger man in his mid-forties, which meant, depending on the weather, he felt somewhere between twenty-two and seventy. He had been married to Martha for many years—a beautiful-for-her-age mother of two cats.

Without thought or ceremony, he turned toward Martha and made advances—less passion than muscle memory. A loud clanking echoed from somewhere outside, followed by the shriek of jets splitting the sky. The ceiling trembled slightly as if it was more concerned than either Frank or Martha.

Martha accepted him calmly, like a librarian stamping a worn book. Not out of desire, necessarily, but with the certainty of ritual.

She stared at the ceiling and wondered—not for the first time—whether he knew who he was making love to, or if he was still dreaming. Either way, she thought, it was a Thursday and she enjoyed his attention.

“Hey, Frank—are you awake now?” asked Martha, shuffling into a better position beneath her husband.

“Yes, dear,” said Frank as he fumbled with his erection. He didn’t get a lot of morning wood any more, so he wanted to make good use of this one.

“Do you know what time it is?” asked Martha.

Frank looked at the clock.

“It is just before midnight,” he replied. “Is everything okay?”

“Yes, Frank, I am good—really—good. OOHHHH Frank—were you dreaming of me just now?”

Martha was enjoying Frank's attention.

The truth was Frank had not been dreaming about Martha. He had, in fact, been dreaming about his mother, who had died a few years earlier while storming the Capitol. “Don’t dawdle, Frankie,” she called over her shoulder as she charged at the statue of Lincoln on a white stallion, lance in hand. Her voice echoed, somehow warm and thunderous at the same time. “The revolution starts in the gift shop. Don’t be late and bring the grandchildren.” His mother had always wanted grandchildren. Martha did not. She preferred cats. But he knew better than to say that right now, so he lied.

“Yes, my love. I dreamt we were young again and in the back of your father's car as he drove us to the movies. I always liked him.”

“That’s nice, dear. I am glad you were thinking of me—and my father. Could you be a bit more firmer, please? I am almost there.”

Frank obliged and quickened his thrusts.

“Yes, yes—like that.”

“Are you done, dear?” asked Frank, his passion also rising.

“Yes, yes, yes.” And with a final thrust, they both climaxed. Frank returned to his side of the bed.

“Frank,” said Martha.

“Yes,” replied Frank.

“What time is it?”

“It is just before midnight, Martha.”

“Thank you, Frank.”

“My pleasure,” said Frank.

“I meant for telling me the time.”

But Frank had already fallen asleep, leaving Martha to look out the window. The threatened rain had begun to fall, masking the sound of the jets as they flew by. The sound of the crickets was frequently interrupted by the pop pop pop of gunfire. There was no way to deny those sounds now. Martha concentrated on the noise the crickets made between the artillery fire. She soon fell back asleep as well.

The night slowly bled into the day. The black sky drifted towards grey. The threatened rain poured and the thunder rolled, masking the sound of the jets as they broke the speed barrier and the tanks as they rumbled. Martha and Frank slept peacefully. A lone bird sang, the first of many morning sounds, as the fauna came to life. It would soon be joined by a cacophony of noise but, for this moment, it sang solo, greeting the morning with hope and happiness. Martha awoke to a scratching at the bedroom window. She shook Frank.

“Frank, Frank—get up.”

“Martha,” said Frank, annoyed with the intrusion on his sleep. “Do you know what time it is?”

“It is just before dawn. But Frank, there is a man at our window with a giant head and a crown.”

Frank got up and proceeded to the window. He accepted a bag of food from the giant head.

“Shooo, Mr. King, shoo.” He shut the window and closed the curtains.

“Ohhhh Frank, you remembered.”

Frank had, in fact, not remembered. He found remembering to be too much like thinking unnecessarily and often had been the cause of friction between him and his wife.

“Of course, I did. How could I forget?”

Martha had not remembered anything either, but she felt that if Frank had done something special, this must be a special occasion.

“Thank you, Frank, this was very thoughtful—and last night was wonderful. Whatever has gotten into you?”

“It was the dream, Martha. Our love has always been like a dream. My love for you has never waned.”

“You are so sweet to say so,” said Martha.

Frank acknowledged the sentiment from his wife with a brief mmm hmmm. They finished their breakfast, happy to be in the company of someone who was happy to be in the company of someone who was happy to be in their company. Frank reached for the last piece of toast. Martha sipped her coffee.

“Frank,” said Martha.

“Yes, Martha,” said Frank, still chewing his toast. He sipped his coffee.

“Who was that man at the window?”

Martha had always hated how Frank chewed toast like it offended him. She never said it, but she noticed.

“That was the king,” said Frank.

“What did he want?”

“He wants us to win, Martha. And to admire him. But mostly he wants to win.”

“Do we admire him, Frank?”

Frank did not answer. He went to the window, opened the curtain, and looked outside. The sun had risen, the birds were singing, the sound of guns and tanks and jets was gone. It was a nice quiet morning. He watched as one lone jet flew silently across the sky toward him and his little farm. He watched as it dropped an object as big as his house and he watched as the object floated toward the earth almost majestically. He saw the huge mushroom cloud before he heard the boom. He felt—something—as the cloud rushed toward him.

“Martha,” he said.

“Yes, Frank,” Martha replied.

“I am glad we never had children.”