It's Raining

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The seat beneath me vibrates and hums with the engine.  The strange chalky fabric scratches at jeans.  I hug my bag in close to me.  Nerves.  Perhaps.  A slight gaze to the right, at the window, but I don’t look out.  A droplet of water trickles down the glass.  It’s raining.  As I watch it gathering more momentum with more weight of joined droplets, I feel a droplet land on my forehead.  Cold.  Sweat.  Salty.  Tears.  It gathers momentum also and slides down passing through the little micro hairs that act as friction or protection.  It slips along the ridge of my nose and stops on the tip.  I scrunch my nose a little and give it a scratch.  My nose is dry.  The Winter air has dried it out.  The skin on my cheeks feels rough to my touch.  The heat in the bus aggravates it and I expect my face is blotched red.  The layers and layers are too much, but do you take it all off for a few stops?  Someone gets on and goes to sit next to me.  Can I move my scarf and gloves, they ask with no words.  Nerves twist into irritation and further.  I pick up my pieces and stuff them into my bag, hugging it tighter.  Personal space.  It’s called personal space for a reason.  It feels safe until it’s broken.  A bubble or fence between you and the world.  Until a stranger slides up against you in a bus.  Overweight.  Huffing.  Grumbling.  Go away please.  Maybe I look like the strange one.  I look out the window again.  Hoping for some salvation.  The water droplets are many now.  They join each other and separate again in a dance on the window of a bus in the rain.

Copenhagen, Denmark 2018

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