We pull up chairs to the window and turn off all the lights to watch the lightning roll east away from the city. Our feet rest on her old blue steamer trunk where we keep our linens, and the cat paces back and forth underneath our outstretched legs, stroking us with her tail.
The street lights reflect up off the wet Brooklyn streets, giving the underside of the clouds a hectic yellow glow as we recite the names of patriotic blockbusters back and forth (leaving out Independence Day as too obvious, of course), though by now we've kind of lost the thread.
"So the ranking of Swayzes goes: Roadhouse Swayze over Point Break Swayze over Dirty Dancing Swayze over Red Dawn Swayze."
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