Now, it was long about time: we sat on the pool deck in neat rows and columns, shivering spiritedly, sucking in all available ambient sunlight like a Goddamned black hole (Brian Kimber sanctioned epithet).

The skies became ashen and sober. Leaves, crisped and seared began to rustle as a whisper of vermouth wind swept them from their hides at the lee of obstacles.

“Looks like a storm might be a-comin’, Geo.”

“Yep Matt, seems…”