Amber Storms

Han Wrapping myself in a warmed, white towel, I step out of my glass-encased shower that could easily fit 4 people, and sink down onto my foam bath mat. The inventor of the towel warmer deserves a Nobel Peace Prize, I think. Even though it’s almost midnight and several hours past when I normally go to bed, I take my time drying off every bead of water dripping from my body, allowing the heat from the fluffy fabric to envelop me. A flash of orange pierces through the bathroom’s transom window, followed by a crack of thunder that makes the marble tiles tremor below me. Perfect timing…that was a close one. I'm not sure if those old wives’ tales are true, you know the ones that say that you can get struck by lightning if you’re taking a bath when it's storming outside? I know it has happened to people swimming in the ocean, but even while showering? It's a stretch, but my mother engrained it in my brain like the fear of God, so I don’t take any chances and refuse to bathe during one, even now at 23. I wish I could though. That would be the ultimate relax and recharge moment for me, immersed up to my nose in an oversized soaking tub filled to the brim with steaming water until my skin reddens; all while the dark sky comes to life surging with electricity, just for my entertainment. I’m not sure if it's the mysterious impending danger or the beauty of the dancing colors and sounds, but I’m obsessed with storms. When I was younger, I used to patiently play on our patio, waiting for one to roll in. Living in Miami, rated the 3rd most city in the United States for storms, I wasn’t disappointed often. I would rather enjoy watching a pale turquoise sky become littered with rolling ominous black clouds instead of being cooped up inside of the house playing video games any day. That much hasn’t changed. It’s so serene the way they unravel, like ocean waves crashing with small white tendrils teasing the ends. Entranced, I wouldn’t move from my place in the backyard, I refused, until the entire sky was obsidian and grayed with angry clouds and rain started to pound the grass. I would finally relent and drag myself inside when my hair became crazed and the wind would chill my skin. But my favorite storm, still to this day, is from when I was driving home from the grocery store with my Umma - aka, my mom. I was mindlessly day dreaming as Umma steered us towards the off ramp from US Highway 1, gazing out of the window as this gorgeous alabaster cloud came into my view. It quickly spread across the sky, so pristine and perfect, like a painter was creating the rounded puffs in real time. The part that made it the most memorable were the fast streaks of gold making themselves known when the lightning started in the middle. Ironic to be learning Greek mythology in school at the time, because the scene almost felt like Zeus himself was threatening to come back to earth… Another rumble echoes through the bathroom walls and snaps me back from my trip down memory lane. Outside my window, bare tree branches from the normally sturdy old oak are easily whipping around in the wind that’s had an uptick in speed already. Flashes of lightning illuminate the yard, bringing to life some random loose leaves that are being swirled away. Needless to say, I love nights like this. Dark and moody, it's my kind of vibe. Flipping on the fan to clear out some of the steam, I inhale the humid air, sweetened with the grapefruit of my shampoo and my bergamot/leather body wash. It's the perfect amount of scent, not too subtle - or worse, too offensive - and lingers on my skin for hours after I use it. I always make sure to have back ups, so I am never without this nectar arsenal of wash. Finally, void of any wetness, I slip into my satin black boxer briefs and pull on some loose gray joggers. My biggest pet peeve has to be when my clothes stick to me, because I’ve failed making myself completely dry. Even thinking about it makes me cringe. I wipe my hand across the condensation on my mirror and I sigh to my reflection, as a few pieces of wet hair fall forward onto my forehead. My twin sister, Mika, convinced me to try something different last time I went to the barbers. Surprisingly, when dried, my choppy curtain haircut is actually quite stylish. I grab my comb, untangling the strands and neatly brush them back, revealing deep, chocolate brown eyes that are almost black. You can hardly tell my iris from my pupils most days, but the most unique characteristic about them is that my right eye has a few specks of gold in it. If I had to rate myself, those are probably my two best physical features; my hair and my eyes. Just like the majority of K-drama leading males, my thick ebony hair is always immaculately styled whenever I go out, amplifying its shininess - all the ladies are envious of it. When I started to make more friends in high school, girls at lunch or during gym would ask if they could mess with it, to which I never refused. I could fall asleep having my hair played with. I can even recall during those times seeing some of the guys’ hands twitch from jealousy, and wanting a turn to run their fingers through my silky tresses. I smirk at the thought. I’ve only ever dated women, but I never failed to miss the way both sexes respond to my appearance, especially when they stare at the amber in my eye. “Ambrose…” my thoughts quickly wordplay in my mind to the similarly named personal trainer and best friend of mine. I used to be that super scrawny Asian kid that got his lunch stolen every other day when we were younger. Now, I have a few years under my belt with him being my personal trainer and it’s definitely paid off. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not huge, but I am decently cut and, most importantly, my confidence has increased tenfold. And it’s all thanks to him. Another glowing burst brightens my bathroom however this time, the house shakes with the crack of thunder that comes after, reverberating through my chest down to my fingertips. Ambrose hates storms. More like is petrified of them. It might seem weird to some because he’s a year my senior at 24, but honestly, I don’t blame him with everything that he has been through. I’m surprised he hasn’t already knocked my door down in a panic…I give it another three minutes. I fish out my seafoam green toothbrush and squeeze a strip of toothpaste on it. Vainly, I watch my pecs and abs flex to the back and forth brushing motion in the mirror, thinking about him, when a click, a thud and something breathing quickly, invade my head space. It’s fast, but steady… In and out. Beat. In and out. Never pausing my oral hygiene, I quietly pad barefoot over to the bathroom doorway, and lean on the doorframe - taking in the sight in front of me. It’s Ambrose…and a full minute earlier than I predicted. We live in the same 1970s mid century modern split level that we modernized and renovated with our friend Enzo, so no surprise that it didn’t take long for him to travel from his bedroom to mine at the end of the hall. That last crack must have gotten the best of him. He seems put together, wearing a beige hooded sweatshirt outfit with black strings, but the fact that he is squeezing his eyes closed, with his head resting against the door, all but panting, screams otherwise. The sleeves of his shirt are cut off and the holes are elongated enough to see his perfectly defined oblique muscles constrict and relax as he tries to steady his breathing. I steal a moment to admire the tattoos that darken his neck and decorate both his arms. Through the opening, I can see the others kiss his abs, reaching down from his ribs. His wavy sable colored hair stops right above his eyebrows and is messy like he’s been passing his hands worriedly through it. Ambrose is a badass by nature, but with a sickening paradox, nature is what completely dismantles him. I quickly and noiselessly retreat to rinse and put away my toothbrush and this time when I come back, I make a little noise so he knows I’m now in the room. His hickory stained eyes open and I catch in a millisecond, then change from fear to a faux calm.