Shame about the Rain

[A re-post of an earlier story, from a prompt exercise, now edited :)]  


A damn shame. It was pouring rain outside and here she was, stuck looking at her wellingtons. 

She couldn't move. Her body was scrunched up in a corner of the living room, soft carpet under her toes, cool wall touching each shoulder blade. In her right hand was a crumpled tissue. The phone was off the hook.

Her cheeks were mottled and damp.

She loved the rain. She loved feeling the drops slip between her fingers, loved the split-splatting of boots on pavement, and the schluck-luck over muddy grass.

But tonight she stayed in, pressing her shoulderblades into the corner of the room and her heels into the floor, as if the whole room would collapse if she wasn't there to keep it up.

Blinking, she replaced the receiver and the drone of the dial-tone ceased.

It was dark now, and through the open window she could hear the sound of wet traffic. The room was dark too, she had not turned on the light.

Inside her chest an injured bird perched, wobbly, unsure.

The phone still by her side was quiet and dark.

The lights outside the window sent patches of orange into the room. One diagonal lay over part of her left foot. She examined it, feeling small, yet connected.

She took in a deep breath and leaned forward a little. The room did not collapse.

EK 2011