It Rained All Day

It rained all day. He sat in the coffee house, never buying anything, sipping a water he brought with him. On the table before him is a book. He is bent over it as if at any moment he will fall into it, fall into the story. His hands are curled tightly in his pockets; in his pocket is a cord. There is something special about the cord. When his hand unclenches to turn a page, leaving the pocket, he is careful not to dislodge it. Though there is no sun, he wears a hat. It is inconspicuously grey, the exact color of the clouds outside. Finally the book is done. He stands up and walks out. The book is left on the table. The water thrown in the trash.  All he takes are his hands and the cord. In front of him is the ground, further on is a girl. She is not young, and hasn’t been young in a long time, her whole life perhaps. Something is in her face, to suggest permanent middle age. She is alone, has been pacing the sidewalk, each footfall punishing the pavement. In her hand is an unlit cigarette, slightly damp from the rain, as if she has had it out but has no intention of lighting it. He thinks she is waiting for something. He runs possibilities through his head, his imagination sharpened by the story he just finished. When he passes her he smells a scent that reminds him of sleep. Sleep in an innocent way, like a nap on a hot afternoon. Past her the air smells like wet, and dripping trees. He breathes deeply and walks on. He tries not to, but he slides down an alleyway like a shadow. The day is grey, like his hat. The alley is black, like his pocket. The cord is white, like the cigarette that she never lit. He sees all this, his eyes blue, like her face as she suffocates.