The city and rain go together. You see it in movies and you know a city looks better in the rain. Rain and washed out lights on cement. Ah. The only thing left, (and you probably saw this coming) is running. Well, a little girl—no, she’s older. Let’s make her older—a young woman was running through the rainy streets of some undefined city in a rush. It was night (it’s always night if you’re running) and her feet smacked the pavement. Rain drops hung suspended in the air around her, crystalline, so it seemed. She was wearing a <S>white</S> black jacket that waved in the wind. The buttons were large and grand, the type you see in Hollywood movies and JCPenney ads.
The rain was staining her face and her breath was a ragged doll. She was running in the beautiful, wet city. (Remember, it’s not described, so don’t go assigning New York or London to it; leave it be) It was dark, and lights flooded the rivers that flew into storm drains. She darted in and out of people and cars and alleyways. The smell of coffee wafted from a nearby shop, and it smelled like brown, that sweet, bitter; a syrupy aromatic. Maybe she just needs to sit down and chill out and drink some coffee? Huh, sounds like good reasoning to me. Well this story isn’t that romantic. (Note: It isn’t romantic at all.)
But she couldn’t sit down and drink coffee. Physically, mentally, emotionally for the sake of the future, she couldn’t Now, you may ask: “Why? What is so important that she can’t stop?” (That’s what both of you are thinking.) Well, if you examined the buttons on her jacket, or the color in her eyes, or the water in her hair, you might be able to see. Both you and she are asking the same things. Who (What) is (am) she (I) running from? (?) That is a wonderful question deserving an <S>un</S>equally wonderful answer. But, I’m not feeling nice enough to tell you it right now.