The day dawns grey with full, heavy raindrops that beat against the window pane in steady rhythm.  The music of nature calls to him in his sleep, the sound wrestling him from deep, satisfying slumber. Two crystal clear pools of blue focus on the droplets that build, join, cascade down the outside of the patio doors. They pond on the deck and seep through the cracks to the pavement below.

He yawns quietly, stretches his arms and the muscles across his back and shoulders. He scissors his legs between crisp sheets before sitting up and swinging his feet to the floor. His toes dig into the carpet and he yawns again, trying to muster the strength to stand.

The mood and style of the day is comfort and warmth. It's just going to be that kind of day. He slips on a pair of sweat pants and a t-shirt and pads out of the bedroom.

He bounds down the stairs, not toward the movement in the kitchen or the scent of coffee, but to the living room where the sheets of rain and the dark sky have created a cave-like atmosphere. He heads for the window and pokes a finger between the curtains to gaze out at the weather. The raindrops splash into the pool and bounce back. A never-ending river swirls down the drains in the concrete.

He steps away from the window and takes up his favorite spot, a well-worn corner of the couch. The cushions have a permanent indentation from where he has sat, day in and day out, for over ten years. There is mumbling about replacing the couch (or at least the cushion), but he ignores it. He has molded and shaped this corner to his liking.

He stretches out, his legs crossed at the ankles, feet resting on the matching ottoman. He doesn't turn on a lamp or the TV. He's watching the Nature Show. Listening to the Rain Dance.

"Hey. You're up early."

Her voice is gentle, feminine and melodic, beautifully lilting with just enough grit underneath to send his heartbeat into a tail spin. He has always loved the sound of her voice. She sits on the edge of the couch and slides an arm around his shoulder. She drops a kiss on the top of his head. She smells like peaches.

"Rain woke me up," he replies, nodding toward the window. The view is a blur.

The house groans as the air kicks on and a breeze wafts through the room. She deserts him, in search of the temperature gauge and when she comes back, she doesn't sit next to him.  She moves in front of the fire place and in minutes, the room is lit by the dim glow of flames.

His eyes never leave her full, round backside as she passes, yet again. He grins and taps his appreciation. She giggles and playfully smacks him back.

When she returns, she holds a super-size serving of coffee, still so hot that a tendril of steam licks the lip of the ceramic mug. In her other hand is a saucer bearing a single pancake, doused with butter and sprinkled with powdered sugar.  A candle stands in the middle, lit and glowing and flickering in the air.

He smiles and sits up. She loves doing this kind of thing, on this kind of day. He closes his eyes and blows out the candle, takes the saucer and the mug from her and gestures for her to sit with him. He savours the bold taste of coffee, the sweet taste of the pancake and the comfortable feeling of her smashed up against him.

"Did you make a wish?"

"Didn't have to. They've all come true."

He can't see her face, but he feels her smiling. "Happy Birthday," she whispers. "Sorry it's so gloomy."

He sets the empty saucer on the end table next to him and drops an arm around her. She curls into him, where she fits perfectly. Her arm slides across his belly; her cheek rests over his heart.

"It's actually not so bad," he says, sipping his coffee, watching the Nature Show. Listening to the Rain Dance.