Hurricane Hannah

I had a conversation with a hurricane -- a woman I know -- after my swim today.  I felt like going far away afterward and letting my molecules settle back into place again slowly.  I don't believe she and I are members of the same species.  She, I imagine, leaps out of bed at the crack of dawn every day and rushes to the coffee pot, opens her mouth and pours the whole potful in, blasts out the door, rushes to her car and hits the accelerator hard. 

It's easy to feel hit by a tidal wave when you've finished off a conversation with a person like her:  You check your clothes to see if they are still right side out and that you have not lost your socks somewhere.  I think all the buttons on my shirt were loosened and dangling by threads.  I walked in a wobbly circle before I could reorient myself and find my car in the parking lot, opened the door and sagged into my seat, breathing carefully, righting my glasses.  It was really something.