Opaque

She's more tired than anything. She sleeps, catching raindrops between her teeth. An old, worn pair of red gym shorts girds her waist and flirts with her pale thighs as some sort of flowy mix-and-mash of athletic mesh and polyester. A week and a half ago, they had been a little bit snug, but they are snug no longer.

An oversized, dark grey, long sleeve shirt conceals the fact that she is completely and utterly braless, quite discreetly. The sleeves are in scrunches; lightly kissing her elbows and just a hair of a fraction of her forearms. Her bare feet are catching a cold.

Her memories can be measured by the number of goosebumps rising upon her skin. All that she has been through could be as great as the countless number of droplets pouring out from the skies above.

But how did she get here? How did she end up in such a foreign space? She lay on a stranger's back deck, outside an empty house. No one is home.

But how did she get here? Well, through trees, through streams of dreams, and streetside escapades, of course.

She had to leave. She knew they would be waiting for her.
Her hair was still dripping from her shower.
She threw on what clothes were most easily accessible,
And ran.
She hadn't even left a note.
She hadn't had much time...

--------

“I opened my eyes
And looked up at the rain,
And it dripped in my head
And flowed into my brain,
And all that I hear as I lie in my bed
Is the slishity-slosh of the rain in my head.

I step very softly,
I walk very slow,
I can't do a handstand--
I might overflow,
So pardon the wild crazy thing I just said--
I'm just not the same since there's rain in my head.”

-Rain by Shel Silverstein.