Can't Rain All The Time

As this darkness pulled me into an unpleasant sleep, memories flooded my dreams. They were flashbacks of my life before Christian. Oh, how miserable I was, back when my days consisted of isolating myself from most things even remotely associated to the outside world - I say most because I still had to make money somehow - and wallowing in self-pity. When, instead of enjoying the one life I’d been given and living it to its’ fullest, I would lounge around and smoke cigarettes.

But that soon changed when his "terrible sense of direction" brought us together…

Pushing my way through the large crowds of bustling people to get to the subway.

Spending the next several hours of my pointless life serving crabby, disrespectful people purposely burnt, over-priced coffee.

Going back into the never-ending sea of people so I can waste more of my insignificant time next to a perverted old man, whom seems to think my knee is connected to his leg and he must ’rub’ it, in a packed subway car that smells of gym socks and Lord knows what else (there's New York for ya).

Coming home to an almost always empty apartment - my roommate, Andrea, actually had a life and was quite fond of taking advantage of that fact.

My life was such a repetitive, expectant blur. That's exactly how my days went, Monday through Thursday; my work days.

Friday through Sunday had a repetitious stream to it as well.

Sleep 'til noon.

Eat whatever's left in the fridge.

Pray that this pack of cigarettes holds out until Monday, when I can buy more on my way to work.

Maybe throw in a football game or two, just for the hell of it.

As you can see, I wasn't living a very healthy life style, nor did I care.

Don’t get me wrong, I hadn’t always been like this. At one point, there was a happy, free-spirited girl inside of me, I’m sure of it. I acted on impulse and didn’t think about the consequences something could have on me. No, I put it all behind me and went for it; actually lived.

But, sometimes, it only takes one bad apple to go and spoil all of that. Or, in my case, several bad apples and one realization.

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As I sat, right leg over my left one, on the bench on the balcony of the apartment Andie and I shared, I pulled out the last cigarette of my final pack. Crumpling the cardboard up into my fist and tossing it over my shoulder and through the open sliding glass door, I made a mental note to myself to buy more at the little newspaper stand outside of the subway.

I lit my cigarette, or butt, as Andie so amusedly called them - she was against killing yourself this way - and put it to my lips, my eyes admiring the scene directly at my left. One of the pluses of having a twelfth story apartment is the view. The sun was just starting to rise, creating an orange and red glowing outline around all objects in sight and over the tall, seemingly endless supply of buildings. Every now and then, a pigeon would fly by, a border of these colors illuminating their soaring figures as well, making their feathers look more like a shimmering orange than the normal grayish white. The only sounds to be heard this early in the morning were those of the honkings of already busy traffic below - thank God I didn't have to drive through that to get to work; I just had to focus on not getting hit by it - the random bird calls, and running water, signaling Andie was taking her usual morning shower.

I squished my ‘butt’ into the ashtray that sat on the thick, concrete railing wall of the balcony and walked back inside, picking up my crushed cigarette box and disposing of it properly. Andrea was already constantly at my throat for my bad habits, I didn't need another thing for her to complain about.

I continued getting ready for work, pulling on a pair of black Dickies, a faded, baggy Circle Jerks t-shirt and my black and gray checkered Vans. I added some black eyeliner to my green eyes after tightly tying my shoelaces, trying to lessen my chances of tripping over anything on my walk. Things had a habit of jumping out of no where in attempt to make me fall on my face. You know, especially that darned sidewalk. It never failed to get the best of me. My hair hung loosely, bolt straight over my shoulders, which I swiftly tied back to keep out of my face for work.

I quickly glanced at the clock.

10:03 a.m. My shift didn't start until 10:30.

Our apartment was only about a ten minute walking distance to the subway, then another ten minutes for ride to my crappy job.

Grabbing my bag from the kitchen counter, I hollered my goodbye to Andie over my shoulder as I stepped out of my front door and into the hallway, where eighty-something-year-old Mrs. Hinton was standing with her mutt, Drooler, or Dumbass, or…something with a D…

"Morning, Mrs. Hinton," I said politely, though she was never polite to me, or anyone for that matter. Honestly, the only reason I didn't act like an ass to her like I did pretty much everyone else was because I was terrified of her. I had never in my life seen an old woman look as unstable as Mrs. Hinton. Her ancient, wrinkly skin looked as if it could slide off her bones at any given moment, like rotten fruit. And the smell…let's just say, as I sped past her and she 'hmph'ed at my attempt to be a friendly neighbor, I held my breath and shuddered at the thought of it. I can just imagine how that dog feels…

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The strong aroma of coffee and it's many flavors our shop offered instantly filled my nostrils as I stepped inside the Starbuck's knock-off I worked at.

As I walked to the back counter, my eyes drifted around the semi-large building, noticing a couple sat in one of the corner tables and a woman in a classy work suit having her order taken by Matthew, my co-worker, finally stopping at the stage that took up the middle of the right wall, tables and a bright red jukebox surrounding it.

The stage was the main reason I even started working here, back when I was still a carefree yet reckless eighteen year old. That was four long years ago, though. When they still used the stage for people, anyone, to come up and recite poetry, either their own or some other famous poet's. It was a way for them to express themselves and be heard. I actually looked forward to work for that reason. Then my moronic boss thought it would be cool to change the place up a bit, use the stage for karaoke nights instead of poetry.

When have you ever heard of a coffee shop that does karaoke?

So, after that turned out to be a failure, my boss just decided to stop using the stage; prohibiting people from using it at all.

I sighed and put my navy blue apron over my head, tying it in the back.

"Morning, Melody," Matt greeted me enthusiastically, smiling widely as he made the woman's beverage.

"Mmm." By now, Matt understood that that meant "Morning to you, too, Matthew. Isn't it just lovely outside?"

I immediately got to work, washing a dirty blender my fellow employee had used for someone's drink prior to my arrival.