The wind whispers your name

"[Your name]," it says. "[Your name]." At first, I enjoy this: it has a quality of romantic melancholia that appeals to my sensibilities. I sit at the windowsill staring out into the night, sighing the sighs of the lovelorn.

After a few hours, however, it becomes clear that the wind is not going to stop anytime soon. Don't get me wrong; your name is really great, but it does get a little tedious after I've heard it six hundred times in a row.

I close the window and go to bed, but the damn wind won't shut up, and I can still hear it quite clearly. It appears to be shouting your name now. Okay, wind. I get the picture. Some of us DO have to get up in the morning, you know.

One unfortunate fact of modern life is that there's nobody you can call to complain about excessively rude meteorological phenomena. Thanks to funding cuts, the police are not equipped to handle things like this. The Ghostbusters, as it turns out, don't actually exist, and in any case, the wind isn't really a ghost, per se. And don't even ask about the National Weather Service. You wouldn't believe how unhelpful those damn weathermen are.

So I decide to take things into my own hands. I throw on some clothes and go out onto the porch. The wind shows no sign of abating.

"Okay!" I shout. "That's more than enough from you!"

"Woosh, woosh," goes the wind. "[Your name]."

"Goddamnit," I say. "What do you want me to do? She's gone. It doesn't matter how much you say her name. Sure, it sucks, but you'd better get used to it, because that's the way it fucking IS."

"Joe's Steakhouse has live music and half-priced beer on Friday evening," the wind says. "So come on down for great food, great drinks, and big fun!"

Apparently, the wind is selling advertising space during your name. Is it really that expensive to run a show like this? Well, economically sensical or not, it seems crass, and it makes me angry.

"Rargh!" I shout, shaking my fist at the night sky. "Damn you, wind! Damn you to hell!"

"And now, we return to our program. [Your name], [your name], [your name]," the wind continues. I give up and go back inside. Not much else I can do, it seems. I put cotton in my ears, and that helps. I'm able to sleep, at any rate. But I have a dream about you. I come home after what seems to have been a long, tiring trip, and there you are, sitting on the sofa, reading the Atlantic. I find it shocking that you're there, but you look up briefly, smile, and go back to your reading, as if this is perfectly normal. I try to speak, but for some reason all I can say is your name. No other words will come. You listen to me, at first patiently, but gradually looking more and more uninterested. I can see that I'm losing you, and I start to become desperate. You put aside the magazine and stand up. You give me a brief, dry kiss on the lips, then walk out the door. I wake up deeply depressed.

In the morning, the wind has died down. I try to call you, but your number has been disconnected.