Jubilee

You used to enjoy walking in the rain. You used to get off on it. The way it felt, pelting against your skin, cold, stinging. The way it beaded upon your glasses — an egg-gel conglomerate of surface tension shimmering before your eyes. The way your hair hung in thick, damp tendrils. The salty, ironic taste of it upon your tongue. The way people with umbrellas looked at you like you were mad. Oh hell, you loved it.

And now you hide inside your house and watch it hammer upon the glass, goading you. You dart furtively to your car, cowering beneath a raised-jacket shield. You pay extra and park underground, anything to avoid getting wet.

You’re drowning, you know.

A black and white photograph of plastic flowers dangling from a string attached to gas station streetlights in the rain


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