I am the spoiler who loves a rainy day. And yet, I find myself wearied by this February grey. A Miss Havisham grey, wasting and unforgiving, a punitive grey intent upon freezing time so as to preserve pain.
While I sit, hypnotized by outside gloom (introspecting, yet outside of Presence), a teacher appears. Eleven buds materialize on a single orchid stem in my office.
There will be no cream for coffee in the morning. This afternoon, I did not complete the trek to the back corner of the grocery store as sadness overtook me, threatening to unleash a salty deluge, right there in front of red and white rows of soups, their golden eyes staring in judgment. I escaped from their glare into the privacy of tinted-enough windows and the detached acceptance of a leather seat.