shiroâs not fully aware of what happened until a weight lands on his thighs and he looks down, sees the fallen carton. it registers then â the shaking of his hands and the empty chair beside him. warmth lingers in that spot, and the smell of something he canât name, but it has him dropping his food to the table, rising, stepping outside. a thin hoodie with more holes than is practical does little against the rain but shiro pulls his hood up anyways, hands stuffed in the pockets as he makes his slow trek over to the occupied corner.Â
         his senses may be duller than they were in his prime, but this womanâs body language reads like a neon sign. awkward, awkward, awkward. for her sake, he pushes such observations to the back of his mind, stops before her far enough to be polite, yet let his low voice be heard over the rain. he smiles, too, quick and brittle, even though he knows she canât see. itâs a habit from brighter days, one he clings to. some good parts of himself he wonât lose.
Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â ïŒ ââââ sorry if i startled you. i didnât mean to. i probably should have said something right away ââââââââââ  sorry, again, for that. Â ïŒ Â rain beats down relentlessly on his shoulders. shiro canât remember when he stopped standing so stall, hunched down instead.  ïŒah & my nameâs shiro, & well, if youâd like, you can come back inside. i wouldnât mind the company. iâd really appreciate it, actually. Â ïŒ Â Â
     «  shiro...  »  from the tip of her lips, she mutters his name.
    giving him, surely, the impression that sheâs one mad woman; who tolerates the rain and speaks only loud enough to hear herself. itâs with one long gulp that has her chin raising, black sticky hair dragging on her neck, that she says  «  if thatâs how you feel  â  then yes, okay.  » Â
  company is too big a word, if anything sheâs a late-tv partner with no notion of sharing. when the old man was still there, sheâd comment on the storyline, nose almost pressed to the screen, and heâd neither agree nor disagree ( she didnât mind, his voice buried the actorsâ ). whenever she asked it of him, heâd describe extravagant clothing and scenes with no care for details. anna couldnât quite picture the outrageous wealth of many of these characters.Â
   if only she could reach through the screen, curl her hand on the rich protagonistâs chest, just to brush her fingers against the satin of his pocket handkerchief, up to the smooth curve of his jaw and skin. instead, sheâd hear the echo of hot tires on cement, drunk friends shambling about the street while she tried to ignore the stink of the parking operatorâs breath. ah, itâs all coming back to her now.Â
  once they get back inside, anna sits with her legs pressed tightly together, both arms resting over the crack of her thighs. «  thank you,  »  she says,  «  i donât like the rain,  »  something anna needs to clarify. «  well,  i donât like to walk under the rain. since i canât hear well.  »  already, sheâs smiling, because sheâs always been very accommodating, knowing she wouldnât live as easily if she did not make an effort to be pleasant. « what time is it? »  itâs abrupt, her question, as abrupt as the thought that the drama mightâve begun without her.Â
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