Gray Umbrellas

Weariness, clouded but thundering like the gloomy day across town, hung on lints on her shoulders, a sniffing set in place with the rhythmic tap of heels in the driveway, calculating the distances, and breaking off into a slow walk, umbrella open in hand. The letter, smooth and rough under her hands, crumpled against the wind, and her lips liked the kiss of weather, but it wanted more the kiss of rest.

It was morning, and she had dreamed all night. But this was a different kind of dreaming, lest she forget how to gather her wool; she had felt the world around her in glances of the moon, and a slumbering monsoon, and dreamed with her eye open. Consolidating the day after that with augurs, she had pushed the worries of the back of her mind further into the corner, and instead sang her sorrow with a couple of handwritten missives and calligraphy. Then she walked a little quicker, rapid breaths unwanted but aware by her chest, and cursed for she forgot her phone in the haste reverie. Though she didn't stop, and continued petting her letters like they were altogether the furriest dog.

One consolation for today, Monday, was not that she had skipped class, for it was never truly a consolation to her, but was that the ground was wet and the sky was fraught with the omen of more rainfall. She liked the town wet and less crowded, and umbrellas and raincoats in splashes of drearily whispering colors, the smell of silent rain infiltrating her and enrapturing her in a call, as if she belonged in the arms of clouds adhering to climate and weather, as if her love were but a drop of singular water in the gutter. She felt like her walk by the garden was harmless and just... just perfectly innocuous, like the rainy days were her sunny days, flowers blooming by every second in her peripheral vision. The papers in her hands trembled, antsy, in her hands, and maybe this was the reason why she had dreamed in hopes of escaping - to eschew the rules of life's game and distance.

She had written to someone who would understand, hopefully, once again what she was going through. It was a long story, beginning somewhere sunnier and dryer, and fell into sagas she hid back in her heart. Maybe someday it shall be blunt against everyone's faces, but it wasn't in that moment, so she shrunk in the Doomsdaylike palette of the outside world and furled her hands onto the hem of her coat, trying to think of something else.

Another skip of the heartbeat when she almost slipped on the pavement. Raindrops endeavored to mollify the lines of anguish in her face, to no avail, and just a serious swipe of the back of her hand, white and cold.

A juddering palpitation hitched up her throat; leaves scattered on the road, the wind swirled around her bun, and the hairs on her nape stood. Her brow had dampened with sweat, almost inconspicuously, and paranoia made her eyes glance left and right. The air suddenly tasted stiff, and she swore she had just seen a glimmer of sunshine in the midst of the austere death by the following corner.

....