63.

Her son away tonight, rain holds off. In the clouds as she leaves work, though, a muttered threat. Rain tonight puts her in mind of toughs who pass a bit too close in the school hallway, bump you sort-of accidentally into the lockers. The cool and clang of it. Go ahead, complain. Come on, report us. The menace of rain, impending.

She chains up, walks quickly through the whooshing automatic doors of the store. Dinner to get. Something to eat. Her head bowed, face averted: no-see-um.

Out on the street again, the rain takes its first tentative shoves, tries its weight, like a bully dancing on tiptoe. Water, skycut, jabs unprotected faces & necks and as quickly retreats. She picks up her steps, hurries a little faster along the ugly street of shops. Almost done now, almost time to turn towards home.

Inside her own door at last, barricaded behind stone and brick, she is brave enough to face rain foursquare. Curled lip. Ostentatious flick of sleeve: see, dry.

Imagines herself, good as untouched.