Raining

Standing in the rain and getting soaked, sweater pulled over head and one hand puny, holding the sides together just beneath chin. No zipping, just cape-like hoping for a half centimeter of dry space between body and weather. Where is the bus?

She stands a few feet away, also waiting. Under a small umbrella. After a while, you ask (that was you getting soaked), Do you know when the bus will be here?

She says, I thought, well it left at ten-of and so any minute now, it's late... (trails off). The wind whips and you close your eyes for a moment. Water slaps your face and you try not to move at all.

Ah, you say. And now that she's had a moment of looking at you she says, Here, want to get under my umbrella? You hesitate a moment, because you are already so wet, why bother, right? But then, it's so nice to not feel the pelting, to hear it just above you and so you

SPLASH

     SPLASH

         SPLASH

               over to her in three big steps. The worst part is the water between your toes, the shoe-sock squash that happens with each movement. Part of why you were standing still.

The girl and you, you don't know each other but the space is very tiny. Your elbows brush and you are both tense for about ten seconds before giving up and letting your elbows brush. And one half of you is still sticking out in the rain and you realize the girl is leaning over to fit you underneath and there are drips running down her back and you hope they won't drop down her neck and make her shiver. (When they do, eventually, she shivers and the umbrella shakes and a drop falls down your neck and you shiver.) Both of you are getting wet now. But neither of you moves out of the umbrella.

You should, you think, let her at least stay dry, but there is the bus coming up the hill.

So you just look at her and say thanks, peeking out from beneath the cape. She says, no problem and has a closed-mouth smile and her shoulders are a little hunched, keeping those last drops away from neck. You sit near the front and put on your headphones right away, she walks to the back; you leave similar puddles on the seats.

The Renegade, in a window seat, is tapping out the rhythm of the wipers on his knee, his forehead is pressed to the pane. Something out there on the street has his attention. You think whatever it is, must be dancing, singing in the rain.