[ @dulcetbroadcasts ]
it’s raining six different shades of yellow today. canary, butterscotch, and dijon are some. but Cecil’s broadcast told more, and no one on the street has fallen to their knees to curse the tones on the radio for the tuscan sun on their flower gardens.
Carlos, of course, already knows why this is. he’s been there, done it all and had his morning coffee after it. he’s sent a text or two, during weather forecast, saying ah, he’s got it, that is the weather today, and would he like to meet up after work? he wished it could have hung up a little on them though. Carlos has the coat he wore in to the lab, folded over an arm, it used to be chiffon. now the tail ends are saffron and drip-drying gold.
he always has a spare (very handy, and very well-worn), so he’s clean and capable under an umbrella, handle lining the stiffness of his arm in a balancing act while he rummages for pen caps at the bottom of his bag. he’d ask Cecil for help, to at least hold their cover, but he’s fine.
but he spills his satchel into the lemon puddles. right in front of his boyfriend.
