Running

Waiting at the deli for J3's BLT to pop cleanly out of a thrice-used toaster, the rain picked up until it gushed in rivers down the hill towards the river. R was the first to notice. The first to throw off her backpack and hoist herself into the fray. She screamed, ran around for a few seconds, and returned as if she had just stepped out of a cabin shower. "Watch my stuff." I ditched my blue purse, my lunch bag, my wheelie, and opened the door. The wind was that of the Kalahari, with the moisture of the Marianas. My head was that of an action figure banged against the wall: a little bit looser than it was before. Without a backwards thought, I rushed out and laughed harder than I have. A woman stopped to stare at me under her spineless umbrella. I didn't care; all of the cigarette butts from the past few weeks were hurrying down the storm drains.