The diner had cleared out by the time the wind reached its peak and the power blew. The lunch crowd was gone and mid-afternoon loiterers—namely Kirk—were driven home or back to work by the overhanging clouds. The day felt close, Luke thought, with the clouds pressing down so low he could feel them on his shoulders. He took advantage of the lull to sit himself down for a moment and bear the weight. Or think about not bearing it, for once, perhaps. He tossed away the towel he'd been using to wipe down the counter and slumped where he sat. Damned weather.
When the power went, his eyes rolled of their own accord and he stood, calling to Caesar in the kitchen. "Fire up the generator—I gotta clean the coffee pots."
Luke didn't expect anyone to venture out in this, but this was Stars Hollow and was never fully safe to expectations. He'd let the coffee perk, keep it warm, turn off the generator after a half hour or so to keep it running the duration of the storm, and sit. He'd never really had the inclination to just sit, or if he'd had, he hadn't seen fit to indulge it, but this week, this week—it didn't bear finishing the thought. This week, his brain began again, in that overwhelmingly irritating and bossy voice, was the week you went to a Mailboxes, Etc, of all places, and signed your divorce papers, which were notarized by Kirk, of all people, while he and Lorelai conducted a conversation about novelty stamps and classic television show, of all things. This week has not been like other weeks. Luke shook his head, hoping to rattle the voice out of place and regain control of his brain. He went to stand at the front window and watched the rain a moment. It came down in sheets. Taylor would be pissed at the potential damage to the foliage in the square. The thought made Luke smile, and he turned on his heel.
"Caesar, I'm going upstairs."
The grunt in response told him Caesar would most likely call him if he were needed. Luke wandered around his apartment a moment, picking things up and putting them down again, unsure of himself, what he needed to do, what he wanted to do. He grabbed a tennis ball from the closet, sat under the window, and threw the ball against the wall opposite him, letting it bounce before he caught it one handed. He let himself be dulled by the rhythm he created: throw—bounce—bounce—catch. Throw—bounce—bounce—catch. In this rhythm he did not hear: your marriage failed; Nicole cheated; your marriage failed; Nicole cheated. He did not hear: relationships suck; you'll never be happy; relationships suck; you'll never be happy. He did not hear: it might be worth it; you have to try again; it might be worth it; you have to try again. He concentrated on the torrential downpour at his window and the comforting, dull pattern of throw—bounce—bounce—catch.