S.O.S

She likes to leave the lights off. That way the greyness of the day seeps into the living room. Conquering surfaces. Till the red of the rug is only a remembered red. She likes looking outside, rain-gazing. Feeling it diffuse into the air around her. Soon the room will be a ghost room. Her hand holding the cup of tea a shadow. The tea a deeper ring of darkness. With every sip, it's darkness pooling inside her. She wonders why light is associated with warmth when darkness is so much more blanketing. She imagines the sun setting behind the clouds. Unheeded. Unheralded. Quietly into the sunset? All the clouds huddle together. Rumbling in bass. Flashing in tenor. She doesn't even light the candles. Suppose the flickering chases the grey into corners. She looks up at the ceiling, it's ghostly paleness hovers over her comfortingly. The constant drumming of the rain on the garage roof reigns, with panicky chatter, over the stillness. A desperate tattoo. She listens for the refrain. Three dots three dashes three dots. God patiently waiting for help, Art and Paul humming about pocketfuls of mumbles that are promises. It rains all night. Until faltering hope is finally washed away with the first rays of the sun. Maybe next time.