rain

I am sitting in an ugly and depressing bar. It’s raining outside and it creates a constant hum that swallows all of the other sounds. I start to watch raindrops that hesitantly make a downfall from the edge of the canopy. Unwillingly or maybe even against my own will I start to count them. I know for a fact that it will be very hard to stop. And when I finally succeed my relief will be strained and polluted. Uneasy. “Fuck”, I think to myself to avoid thinking it when you will be next to me. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Forty-seven.

So – it may be that you will walk into this bar just when I will move on to the number fifty-seven. You will have this nervous smile on your face: a bit apologetic, a bit absent. You will also make this weird wave with your hand that could be sort of “hello” but could also mean nothing. I will be still counting – probably won’t stop before sixty-one.

You might come a little bit later, when I’ll be in the low hundreds. If that’s the case I might not even look at you and simply keep on staring ahead. And it’s not because I would be already pissed off with you for all that waiting – it would happen simply because once I get to the three digit plane – it is so fucking hard to stop (it takes at least twenty numbers). But you know it. You would sit down at the table and wait. You could even make a remark that this way our waiting debt is evening a bit.

 You may also not come at all. Then I may stay till it stops raining or maybe even a bit longer - until all of the raindrops from the canopy fall to the ground. At that point I may forget I was waiting for you.

Sixty-one.