Wet Socks

        A small car, twisting through cobbled streets, winding down alleys and one-ways. And the sky rumbled. A couple, huddled in the back seat, eyes drooping, passports safely stowed in pockets. And the sky ignited. A house, room enough for two travelers to find comfort in, but small enough to keep the two close. And the sky cried.

        The two hooded figures pushed out of the car, tip already delivered, and met the sky’s welcome. Thunder, lightning, rain, and a cold, “hello”. Bags in hand the two scrambled up to the house that was just the right size. It was a code or maybe keys to get in and out of the sky’s greeting. The couple pushed open the door, bringing quarts of water in with them. The clean, dry floors quickly were introduced to discarded coats, muddied boots, drenched beanies, and wet socks. Suitcases were quickly dug into to find replacements for the wet mess that the man and woman wore.

        Steam began wafting from the tiled room into where the man arranged the clean clothing. A small dresser began to again fulfill its purpose as he allocated drawers for each of the suitcases contents. Then the kettle needed to be tended to, plugs needed to be discovered, and wet clothes needed to be relocated. A voice broken through his checklist. An invitation, the type that isn't refused unless one is clueless or simply didn’t hear correctly. Wafting steam and an invitation. More wet clothes found their way onto the floor, checklist discarded for the time being.

        The sky continued its theatrical performance above the town full of cobbled streets, winding alleys, and one-ways. But inside the house that was just the right size, with wet socks laying beside the shower, two people found warmth in the most simple of ways.