She is looking out the window

again. Wishing for there to be

no window. That she could feel the

tumbles of pittering rain droplets as they

run with the wind. On her face. She

thinks on how her autumn-harvest

hair would plaster against her pinked-out

cheeks and jaw and lips. She

watches, seemingly unable to forget her

evening plans. It's down to her mother's

black silk or the leopard-skin

gloves, but both are ripped and she

doesn't know how to sew. She

isn't tired. She's exhilarated. Ready to

feel the rain and wind and trees sail

across her face and down her neck. She

sits and watches through glass panes as skies

whip clouds like batter.