Obviously this is not a poem. But I may never write a short story again so it is not worth creating a category for it. Enjoy.

“It’s raining again.”

It was Kyle, in the middle of the worst storm ever, dripping. He’s always dripping. He must have walked over in the rain, like four blocks, and his hair was like, soaked, like a long hairy sponge, a four foot long hairy sponge. I mean his hair falls below his knees. If the guy is ever held hostage the bad guys won’t need to bring duct tape, just tie him up with his own hair. Even his eyes were soaked, his eyebrows, like that’s supposed to make him endearing or something.

“So? I don’t want you coming in and ruining my carpet.”

“Valerie. Just let me in for a minute.” He is so pathetic.

“Look, Kyle. I can’t fall in love today. I didn’t do a thing with my hair. Come back tomorrow.” Now he was confused and pathetic – I have no hair at all. But sarcasm always misses him. He’s like a stick figure so no barb you shoot at him can hit him.

“But you don’t have any hair, Valerie.”

“Whatever, whatever…it’s not happening.” And he was still standing there. You can’t be subtle with this guy.

“I just thought, you know, you might need to talk or something. You know. Girls like to talk. I can, you know, listen. I used to listen to Cindy …” He dripped his words like he dripped rain in my doorway. His sister died. Leukemia. Like we bonded, or something, like he knew all about me because of his sister.

“Is it not a good day? Did you have a bad, you know, appointment?”

“No, Kyle, my appointments are always great. I feel refreshed and like I’m looking forward to chem in the Fall.” Sarcasm again. A waste of perfectly good sarcasm. “Look, Kyle. The last twenty-four hours are making me seriously reconsider our friendship.”

“Valerie. You can get through this. I’ll help. I’ll -”

Suddenly I felt just too tired to be there, just be there in the doorway with this guy dripping on my floor and trying to be less pathetic. Such a loser. But I was a loser too and at least he might have time to experience the whole being-a-loser thing. My loserishness might be over real soon.

“I went over to St. Patrick’s and lit a candle, you know, just to… you know.” He’s Catholic.

“No. What Kyle? What are you and a stupid candle gonna do. You can’t make anything happen. You can’t make me better. You can’t create life. Just go home.”

“We create ourselves.”

That didn’t sound too Catholic to me, and Kyle is not the type to come up with profound – profound, hell not even trite comments about the meaning of life. He’s just good at walking in the rain and looking pathetic and dripping on your doorway. That’s Kyle.

“We create ourselves?”

“Father Sanchez said that. Uh, last night. He said we make choices, and it…I don’t know… you know, creates us.” Not an articulate guy, our Kyle. Not the poster child for the campaign to rid the world of the deadly blah-no-phoma cancer.

“I got you a flower.” I hadn’t noticed it. It was a dandelion in the shape of a paper clip. Let’s just say the rain had not made it fresher. Just like Kyle. “I’ve been, you know, thinking seriously about our … friendship. You know, reconsidering. You know, last night.” I had trouble imagining Kyle considering anything. “I thought you might be feeling better today.”

“What? Because of Father Santitos and the stupid candle? Whatever, whatever. It’s not happening. It’s just not happening, Kyle.”

And then he was crying. I mean, how could I tell? He was already dripping so much on my doorway, I swear there was no room for any more water on his face. “Kyle. You can’t…you can’t make plans, have hopes, stuff like that. You know you can’t.”

“I know”. He held out the pathetic excuse for a flower. Very slowly, like it was the other side of the moon, I took it. He smiled. “Don’t worry. I can’t fall in love today. I can’t do a thing with my hair.”

And I couldn’t stop laughing. He always does that. Makes me laugh when I would rather do any damn thing but laugh. He just stood there pathetically for a while letting me laugh, like a cartoon who’s lost its balloon. “Well, I better go.”

“Hey, Kyle.”


“Wait. It’s a … it’s raining again.”

Explore posts in the same categories: poetry

4 Comments on “Rain”

  1. Well done! Keep writing – I am waiting for more poetry, too.

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