Things look like other things in the rain.
The town you’ve lived in for years looks like a softer version of itself. You feel like a softer version of yourself–and a wetter one, too, but that’s what you get for a walk in this weather.
The road, slick and leaf-covered, could be a dark river. The trees are dark and tall and damp, and line the hills over the town like combed-back hair.
The person beside you looks like stranger, glasses fogged over and hood up. Someone down and across the street could be familiar, could become familiar.
They do become familiar. You turn the corner onto the next block, and there’s another person, down, across. The same person? They wear the same raincoat, light-colored under the street lamps. You pass, along your opposite paths on the narrow road. You do not turn to look at them. They do not turn to look at you, as far as you know.
You stumble in an unexpected puddle, splashing your companion. You glancce over, opening your mouth to apologize and make some joke. They are not familiar. You close your mouth. You do not look away. They do not notice.
When did you meet them? When did you start walking together?
When did you start walking?
The rain has soaked through your jacket, almost; it drips off your cuffs and trickles into your crocheted mitts. It is wet. It is cold. It is dark.
You look away from the stranger beside you. There is some down the street and not across from you. They are wearing a light-colored rain coat.
It takes a moment for your stiffened legs to their steady course, to turn you and speed you up. You do not look over your shoulder to see how the stranger you thought you knew or the person who is familiar react. You run. You slide between buildings and turn sharp, and turn again. The ground is slippery. You almost lose your footing but do not. The ground looks like it would be soft, like it would not hurt to fall.
The buildings look like brick. The houses look warm and cozy. The lights look like they are safe. This looks like the town you’ve explored until there was nothing to explore anymore. There are shadowed street signs where there should not be, and no signs where they should be one.
You know the way yourself, and all you know is you have to get home.
A car several intersections down moves the way a car should not. You turn down the alley that should lead beside your apartment building. There is a person in a moterized chair sitting at the exit out to your street. They are not a person in a moterized cart.
You turn to run up the slope to your home. You slip.
The town is soft, soft, softer than you know. The edges are not the same. They aren’t the way they should be. It’s soft, soft, soft, soft, soft.
Things look like other things in the rain.