A cocoon for the luxurious, she wears it like Burberry, even though she picked it up at the secondhand store on the corner. In its pocket she found a dazzling clue to its previous life – a forgotten garment tag with the name and address of its first wearer. She wraps the memory around her shoulders as she glides into the afternoon drizzle.
Arriving to one’s appointment a lavish five minutes past time, many would apologize for their late arrival and wet hair. She wears both facts like crowns, the hour gleaming from her wristwatch and the bangs stuck to her forehead. Brushing them out of her eyes, she is reminded of a soggy summer day from her childhood when they once fell the same way.
And as she makes her way through the streets and the alleyways and the little puddles in between, a certain step makes her walk come alive with gay breath. One minute a waltz, the next a fox trot, a few moments later a child’s skip. It’s a pas de deux- her partner, always the rain. And as the clouds part and the pair say adieu, she dances away, carrying the step as she goes.