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.