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Rainy Day WomanBy: Allyson CoughlinSometimes, you are an interestingperson. You keep trying to remindyourself of that. You have things tosay, stories to tell. But not today.Today you are unable, unwilling to functionproperly. The only activity that interests you islying on the floor, next to the couch, dreadingreturning to work on Monday. You havespent all day in this horrible little place, withthe windows that won’t open and the crapspilling out everywhere. You are not anorganized person, and in the past coupleweeks, you have been even more negligentthan usual. There are clothes everywhere,covering every surface, and papers and books.At least 4 abandoned beverages that you cansee from here. You stare at the half emptymug of coffee to your left. There is no tellinghow long it has sat here. It’s beginning tosmell now. In the heat, the milk has curdledand risen to the top.Stumbling slightly as you get up from theground, you walk into the kitchen. The houseis unusually silent today; your roommate isgone, god knows where. You hope she didnot see you when you came in the nightbefore. You do not quite remember exactlywhat state you were in, but context clues- theheadache, the ruined make-up, the fact thatyou woke up somehow still fully clothed onthe couch- suggested the night had been aneventful one. Your roommate hated you. Youwere messy and moody, and you walkedaround without a bra on whenever herboyfriend stayed over, smiling sweetly at himas he tried to avert his eyes. Her being absentall day was a blessing, but still, the house feltstrangely empty without her. You almost missher.It is so humid and the room is stifling. Itis one of those weird spring days where thetemperature, without reason or forewarning,has jumped to 70 degrees, and you are notequipped to handle the change. It isimpossible to do anything under theseconditions. You need to get outside, get someair. You need to leave this place before itsuffocates you completely, so you go outside,but it is no better. It is still humid here, stillwet. It is one of those days where everythingjust seems slightly damp: one of those daysthat promises rain then refuses to deliver. Asyou walk down the street, your shirt clings toyour skin, sticky with sweat. You are a personwalking without a destination. You are restlessand there is no place to go, and walking moreseems like the only option. There is nothingto look forward to anymore, it seems. There isnothing you need and no one you want to see.The day seems unbearably long and your lifeseems incredibly pointless.For reasons that remain unclear, youdecide to keep walking, all the way downtown.As you pass by the Starbucks on George St,you see David in the window, staring out atnothing. Although you weren’t expecting tosee him, his presence seems inevitable. Henotices you as well, and from his seat gives anod of recognition. You nod back, then walkinside and sit down on the seat next to him.“Have you ever wondered what it mustfeel like to get struck by lightning?” he asks.He does not bother with a greeting andneither do you.“Honestly no, I have not,” you respond.“In fact I can honestly say that I have spentvery little time thinking about people struckby lightning at all.”“And why not?” he asks, “Don’t youthink it’s fascinating? I love lightning. I thinkit’s the most beautiful thing in nature.”“It’s definitely pretty,” you respond.Immediately you feel like an idiot. You like toconsider yourself a person who is good withwords, but you are unable to find anyadjective to use other than “pretty.”19