IT'S RAINING OUTSIDE

   You wake up on Sunday, at 8:30. You’re wearing his shirt, and the same flannel pants you’ve had since college. It’s dark out, still, and as you reach across the bed to pull up the shade, you notice the streaks of rain falling down the window, catching in the screen. Sit in the middle of your bed, hold your knees to your chest, watch the window, listen to the rain, wonder what’s happening to you. Early yesterday morning he called to cancel for today. This news spoiled most of Saturday, and you have no idea how to bare it under the wet blanket of Sunday.
   You’re cold and alone and it’s raining and there’s nothing to do today, and in turning on your radio, you find that your station won’t come in. It’s Sunday, a worst-case scenario.
   That boyfriend of yours, he’s free and independent, and he says that he loves you, leaves and comes back. He’s not being unfaithful; you know that, he’s just ! lacking commitment. You leave the incandescent haze of your bedroom, going to the kitchen, still wearing his shirt because it’s a physical object. It’s something you can hang onto.
   Since today doesn’t matter, you lounge with ease. You sit on your kitchen counter; flip through the paper until you find the weather, the horoscopes. You eat yesterday’s stir-fry cold, out of the Tupperware. Regret, as you always do every time you’re in your kitchen, that you don’t have more cabinet space. Engross yourself in the Middle East Peace Process, almost forget that it’s Sunday.
   After breakfast, you wash the dishes, very well, for a long time. Make yourself a cup of green tea, and then decide you want it black. Drink it anyways. You’ve read all the paper so you stare at the wall instead. After you’ve finished drinking, still look at the wall, so deep in your thinking, you don’t notice what you’re doing.
   After wondering about this for a while, you wonder some more. Think to call a friend, and then come to the conclusion that the friend will want to talk about Him and you together. Besides, it’s raining outside, there’s nowhere to go.
   You decide to clean your living room, which is slightly bigger than your kitchen, and covered with dust. With an ambition similar to that of conquering the world, you attack the curved chair legs and picture frames. The air is a battle: triumphant sprays of lemon pine sol and typhoons of dust. Halfway through, you collapse in a chair. Duke Elling-ton’s /Caravan” sounds throughout your apartment and reaches outside into the grey sky, in rhythm with the rain.
   You haven’t turned on any light in here. It’s dark and it feels like God has forsaken you and plans to send you to your grave as soon as he possibly can. You let yourself cry for a little while, but not for long.
   Trying, with a desperate optimism, to improve your situation, you decide to indulge yourself. You open a long saved bar of chocolate and find the nail polish that you have never used before. But, the rain is too distracting for you to concentrate on your toenails. Besides, the color is ugly on you, and the chocolate is stale.
   Climb back into bed. Pull down your favorite books. Try to re-read them. You read /No Exit,” by Jean-Paul Sartre and figure that hell isn’t other people, as he says, but rather other people who leave you all alone. Not focusing on reading too much, you plan to nicely drift off to sleep. All you do is lie there with your eyes closed for what feels like a long time. You pretend you’re asleep while your mind is shooting on stars across the sky. You start crying, again, and the rain calms you down. You’re sick from being in bed for so long.
   You go to take a shower, do so quickly, to avoid wrinkling and turning blue. In wet hair, you feel even worse. Go into your bedroom, to get out of your bathrobe and to get dressed. Open your dresser drawer. Find all of his letters. Fall apart on the bed.
   For lack of anything better to wear, put on his shirt again, the old pants, and no shoes. You walk down the stairs of your building to go outside, to meet this rain. You’re already wet, anyway.
   On the steps, outside, raindrops slide down your face, crying for you. He isn’t good for you. This isn’t good for you. Stare into the rain and fog coming off the street, trying to see through it. Shiver, you’re cold. See the car headlights reflecting in the street. Realize you look pathetic, huddled on the steps wet, distressed. You don’t mind. This makes you feel better. The rain makes everything feel cleaner and newer, and anything is possible.
   You go back inside to make yourself another cup of tea, decaffeinated, in case you want to try falling asleep again. Stare at the wall, lapse into thought. Think that you have to do something about this. Think some more. Notice the window. It’s raining outside.

- Emily Jacobson