Sunny Was Here

It rains. The drops hit the tall glass wall, and I watch them.  I think, he’ll be here. I lean on the cold stone and slide down to my knees.  When it rains, it pours, I think. The street fills with the drops, and the cars slow.  I look down and pluck some puffs of fuzz from the wool that hides my arms.  He’ll be here, I think.  A man stares in as he walks by, but I look away.  I trace the cracks in the tile floor, and I think, he’ll be here.

As they walk, round domes of black keep the drops from their hair.  Some stare, and I look down once more.  I watch the light creep from me.  It fades from the tiles.  My head rests on the wall, and I think, He’s late.  I tuck my knees to my chest and fix my skirt.  I wore it for him; blues and greens zoom across the cloth.  It’s too cold for this skirt.  I grab my sleeves and pull them down.  I slip off the heels, and set them next to a crack in the tiles.  It was too far a walk for these shoes.

The rain looks bright next to the dark.  It holds light from the lamps and falls to the ground.  I stare out the glass.  I breathe on it and write in the fog, “Get here.”  I wipe it with my sleeve and move from it’s cold.  I braid my hair. I think of my next style, but he likes it long.  I’ll keep it long.  I’ll hit him, and tell him I’ll keep it long.  I move to write on the glass again, but I find no words to put there.  I can’t write, “He’s not here.” I can’t think, “He won’t be here.” I won’t.

I set my chin on my knees and breathe in the chill.  They sweep their brooms around me.  They look at me, but I look at the cracks in the tile.  I know they frown at me. I know they say, “Poor girl. It’s just her,” but I won’t hear them.  I’ll wait.  I think, he’ll be here, and so I wait.

My eyes wish to close and my mouth wants food, but what if he comes? What if he DOES come?  What words will he write on the glass? I see his ghost kneel down. He draws his lines neat, and I know the word he will make.  It would be her name.  He would write her name.  It’s her; not me.  I lift my body up off the floor, and pick up my shoes.  I feel – I breathe on the glass and write, “Sunny was here,” – cold. The door shuts behind me.

The drops break on top of my hair as I walk home. My eyes and steps trace the cracks in the street, and I think, I won’t write his name after this.

For some time, that made me happy. I felt strong; but the rain has not stopped, and I am still cold. I think, Sunny IS here. Sunny is here… But I do not feel “here.” I am still on the dry side of the glass with nothing to write.


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