Bad Weather

Rain on the window, cards on the table, a lawyer delayed in town. Listen to Chekhov's Bad Weather as a family afternoon covering a lie — the wife, the mother, the small theatre of concern, then the real weather, and it is not rain. Unabridged English, a short story of trust wearing thin, told at the temperature of a wet Russian summer. Nothing epic happens. That is the point, and you hear it land. Kvashin's absence is the plot; the cards are only cover.