A/N: A few slight changes. Like the leaking face.. :-p Pshaw..no one seemed to like that. Oh well, so much for my attempt at literary weirdness. But yes, it *is* supposed to be rather odd. mimicking Hemingway's habit of leaving out hugely important details. What do you think it is? Special thanks to Nestalgica and Kymic for their reviews. It is *much* appreciated and I *will* review you. Soon.

Gusty Night

Wind whistled down the valley, whipping and driving the slashing rain across the neat little houses on the hill. It howled, it groaned, it pleaded for entrance, but the sleeping houses kept thier doors and windows safely closed.

The bathroom was steamy and humid, condensation dripping from the mirror and light fixtures. The woman behind the shower curtain could not hear the wind, could not see it in the moving branches outside. Her eyes were closed. She was warm. She rinsed the last of the soap suds from her hair, reached down to turn the brass spigot, and stepped across the lip of the tub onto a waiting towel.
Now she was cold. She wrapped her hair up in one of the towels and began drying herself with the other. In the quiet now, she could hear the wind. It was still waiting. She brought the towel to her face, intending only to dry the last of the water, but encountered a problem. It would not dry. It would not dry. Her eyes were weeping, weeping; they would not stop.
She remembered.
The towel did not move. Shivering and naked, she leaned her back against the wall and lowered herself to the floor. Sitting always made it easier.

It was still dark, still night, still raining. She sat on the stairs, her bare feet resting on the cream carpet. The night-light down the hall was on; other than that, the house was black. At around 11:00, the people across the street turned off their lights too and went to bed.
Her hair was dry now. It lay politely across her back, behaving after a half hour struggle with the straightening iron. It smelled of that pleasant perfume found mainly in hair care products. She could see the tree moving outside the windows by the door now. The wind still shook the windows occasionally, almost as if it was trying to remind her that it was still waiting. She ignored it for now.
She thought. A rueful smile played on her lips. "Boy, what a strange place to realize..." Her breakdown in the bathroom seemed almost comical, even if the reasons were still floating around in her head. They were, in fact, what had driven her to that step on the stairs as the clock sang midnight.
She sighed as another gust rattled the panes of glass down the hall. Grabbing hold of the banister with one hand for support, her flannel pajama bottoms made small swishing noises as she continued to the bottom landing. Swish..swish...swish..swish...swish. Pause. She turned the doorknob and stepped outside for a moment.

"Ms? Ms, are you alright?" Ernie knelt and set his full bag of papers down in one motion, then gently reached out to touch the woman's arm. It was cold. Her lips were tinged with blue.
"Miss? Can you hear me?"
Her eyes opened and she looked at him.
"Hello." She paused a moment, trying to remember where she was. "I must have lost track of the time." The layer of morning dew on the stone tiles under her feet glistened in the morning sun.
"Fallen asleep? Pardon my saying so ma'am, but you've probably caught you're death of cold out here. you want me to call someone?" The deliveryman took the woman's hands and helped her to her feet. She simply smiled at him.
"No no. I'm fine." She opened the door with a shaking hand. Her feet, still numb, missed the step and she slipped. Ernie caught her arm.
She smiled again and shook him off. "Thank you." Then she entered the house and closed the door.
Ernie shook his head, staring intently at the door. Then he shrugged and picked up his sack.
On the other side of the door, the woman closed the blinds again. "I'm fine," she told herself as she climbed the stairs to her waiting bed. "Just fine." Her knuckles were white as she gripped the banister.