Weather Guessing
Roxas was a junkie for the rush that one feels when terrible expectations are lifted when the truth of the moment comes to light. Case in point: he had his clock set two hours fast and woke up every morning to the initial dread that eight thirty brings, only to bask in near orgasmic delight as the actual hour dawned on him. Delicious six thirty; delicious hour of sleep remaining. So when he and Axel would lie down on the little paved road at the top of not-mount Mount Prospect and look up at the clouds, Roxas would invariably predict rain and murk and grey.
"No it's not." Axel had an arm folded over his eyes and was rolling a pebble beneath his heel.
"We'll see." Roxas was eyeing a cloud that looked suspiciously like an umbrella—until it looked like a drinking fountain—until it looked like a white blob of nothing.
The fact was that Roxas suffered from made up diseases like RLS and SAD. He endured the New England winters by alternating between ridiculous stretches and burst of tears that came at inappropriate moments like during the news or while he was boiling water. There was nothing worse than opening his eyes to see a grey sky and a grey world filled with water and dirty snow piled up to obscene heights in half the parking spots in the Wal-Mart lot.
So he had his fun predicting how terrible tomorrow would be with the rain and snow and hail and sleet and wind and cold and ice, but then tomorrow came and the pretty picture was one of spring and Axel was pounding on his back door yelling about Roxas' damn cat clawing at him and if there was any Cap'n Crunch left.