She looks out the window to cold hard skies that scrape the ceiling of the world and fade into the early morning.
The fog has dusted over and everything seems shrouded in a wetness that chills you to the bone but when she sticks her hand out to feel the rain there is nothing. There is nothing. She walks down the streets at found in the morning deliberately stepping in all of the puddles the imaginary rain has left.
She sits at the bus stop and waits for something important to happen, something that would make the world come alive again.
Every person who passes by brings their own tiny gust of wind with them. When they sit at the bus stop a whoosh echoes out that nobody hears. Phones clack and click while the riders wait, and the rain keeps not coming but screens keep fogging up.
There are businessmen on Bluetooth headsets talking about making big deals. She sits and clutches her umbrella between her yellow rain boots while the city of gray rises around her. It is a tiny uprising in the form of obnoxious yellow, with a blue umbrella and a pink coat. She looks out of place among the waiting riders, uniformed in gray and black and blue.
They look at her when they walk by, and she fears that she has chosen wrong on this rainy day, but her mother got her these rain boots in a time when everything had been beautiful, so she promised herself to wear them on the gray days.
The bus pulls into the station, squelching its tires and opening its doors with a loud sigh echoed by those who are now pushing their way on. Day in and day out, huddled. She gets on the train in her yellow rain boots, but they don’t mean anything. Even though she decided to wear them, they are a relic of a time long gone, a memory of an unfulfilled promise.
She does not take out her cell phone, she does not link up to a Bluetooth headset, but she is among the gray and the black and the blue, even though she is wearing yellow rain boots.