Kurt R.A. Giambastiani

He let the book down onto his lap and closed his eyes. The window ushered in the breeze of early morning, cold and full of the electric scent of coming rain. He luxuriated in the feeling of gooseflesh on his arms—what was it called? horri-something? yes, horripilation, when the skin grows tight and the hair stands up—as the cold air sailed past him, over him, through him. It had been an unpleasantly brief night, one filled with aches and discomfort. Aging wasn’t easy, or so his body told him, frequently. But the early morning’s grey-shrouded light, the breeze heavy with moisture seasoned by salt from shoreline waves, the feeling of the book’s rough paper still tingling in his fingertips, this was life, this was being alive, and the perfect way to start the last day of June near the edge of Puget Sound.

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