I like water better than I’ve liked to exist. Anger seems a faraway thing amidst the gentle coaxing of my baby blue basin the cool of this liquid satin sliding across my wrists, running down my elbows and I can’t even find it in myself to be annoyed at the now damp sleeves I lug around all evening.
I don’t like a soaked hem.
Until its pouring and almost night-time and my best friend’s taxi leaves without her for the second time in 6 minutes and we stand in the deluge - a little stunned - mostly trying not to laugh at ourselves and the umbrella is useless anyway and the water has ascended up to my knees and I’m cold and we’re laughing and I relive that moment every time my pants trail across a puddle.
In the second grade we learn about tributaries for the first time and its strange to think that I’d never thought about where a river comes from or how that brook we caught tiny, tiny fish in with my....
