A Deadly Cliche

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“Storm’s comin’,” the fisherman said, stroking the pewter whiskers of his beard. He glanced at the small television mounted above the espresso machine, squinting at the green radar image of circulating clouds.

Olivia Limoges followed his gaze. She looked at the irregular shape of the low-pressure system forming in the Caribbean, listening closely as the meteorologist showed the storm’s projected path should it gather strength and become more than a tropical disturbance. The slick-haired weatherman assured his viewing audience that although the storm was likely to organize and grow in force, it would remain out at sea, allowing for a perfect Labor Day weekend for those heading to the beach.

“Jackass,” the fisherman’s voice rumbled like distant thunder. He rubbed a calloused, leathery hand over his lined face as though he could wipe away the other man’s erroneous words. “Don’t matter how much fancy equipment these boys get. They don’t understand a damned thing’bout balance. We’re due for a big one and we’re witnessin’ her beginnin’ right here and now on that TV screen. I feel it in my bones. It’s a comin’.”

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