Outside. The skies washed were in amber and smoke. Buildings, streets, and lights were little more than puddled wax when viewed through the glass of her bedroom window. The lace curtains carefully tied back, the blinds risen until they were no more than a suggestion at the edge of her sight.

The sound of raindrops against brittle panes brought memories of fingers tapping in seeming boredom on long forgotten afternoons. The tap, tap, clink of nails against sweating glass filled with tannic colored water sweetened until it was more syrup than liquid. The languid drone of voices heard through screens and quickly lost in the sounds of birds, bees, and flirtatious breeze. A smile turned her lips even as her eyes watered. She missed the porch swing, with its creaking chains and flaking paint. Full of warm evenings and stolen kisses.

Here there were no porches, nor swings, nor naughty boys to whisper in your ear. There were no lazy Summer afternoons full of laughter, the chatter of birds in the trees and she had long ago forgotten the touch of the breeze.


3 thoughts on “Rainfall (Short Story)

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