Flow

It Is A Strange, Strange World

It starts with the rain;

as most good stories do.

Cliche is spelled  with a smattering of sunlight, a sprinkle of dew and the smell of freshly mowed grass

 but good stories,

good stories begin with thunderstorms.

The rain buffeted my body this way and that way and in every direction possible as

I ran in a very tediously predictable fashion through the street with

my stringy hair plastered against my face and 

splattered kohl collecting in the bags of my eyes and

a shrivelled up excuse of a hoodie clinging to my back fat like a second skin;

attractive, I know.

It was pretty easy to assume that my attractiveness would have broken the glass ceiling

and brimmed over completely 

had I not found shelter under the battered metal tin roof

of a withering grocery store.

I stood (half-keeled over, to be honest) under the rattling sheet, shivering like a bedraggled kitten,

 clinging desperately onto the fast dissipating remnants of my body warmth, wondering,

if the rest of my day was going to go in  the same fashion until,

the boy in the Spongebob boxers, standing behind me

(in mind you, nothing but Spongebob boxers)

on meeting my (rather surprised, raised-eyebrow) gaze, lifted the corner of his mouth sheepishly and said,

"You wouldn't happen to have a roll of toilet paper on you, would you?"

  © All Rights Reserved, Nephythys, 2016