Evening after Rain

The sudden shock of a face at one of the windows across the Mews. Twilight quickly turning to night, and the air hanging heavy with the rain. On the window panes, single drops cling like insects, like stars, like the irradiated workers of a lost factory I dreamt of when I was 21.
The diagonal waves of the sea, sick and frothy tides, an unhealthy, untrustworthy grey. Watching the street lamps from the fourth floor of the call centre shift and bend, slightly, in the wind. Keep watching the sea. From where I sit at work, it looks like it has devoured the beach. A merman coup, a kraken invasion.
I imagine the terror of a tsunami, watching the flood come up West Street, tear up cars and people and Wednesday afternoon.
I swear those waves keep glancing at me.
The damp blossoms that hang from the burgeoning trees look heavy and narcotic. The dim light, and the darkness behind the blossoms taste like old days spent slumbering on sofas and dreaming of churchyards and ghost stories in cheap anthologies bought from school fetes.
Watch the sky. It looks too heavy for the night to hold up.