Gio’s never seen so much rain in her life.
No, no —that wasn’t completely true. She’d seen sheets of monsoon rain pummel down amid claps of white lightning, thunder that felt true down to the roots of your teeth —thunder that makes you feel like you have cavities, like you’re chewing on tinfoil. She dreamt about that rain often. It was almost the same rain that spilled down against the tin-sheet roofing of her mama’s home in Mazatlán. Years ago, when she was small enough to be sucking her thumb, old enough to try not to cry at the metallic roar of rain. So long ago that none of it felt real, as for a brief and precious period of her life, childhood had been some sort of dream. Ceaseless showers. Shivering palms. Flashes of white light.
This rain is gray, and cold, like the ocean that borders this land. It flows down the narrow streets and drains from the tall buildings above. It falls with no mercy. Unlike the barrio in Mazatlán, whose rain was met with muggy humidity —the rain is different in London. ... In London —a few bus stops from the calamity that was London-Heathrow Airport, in particular —the rain does not act as a warm baptism. Its chill drills right through her black leather jacket, the gray hoodie pulled over her dark and soaked-through. Drips from her thick lashes like tears, soaks into the seat of her jeans. Her shoes are no better. Her bra, her underwear, the pack of cigarettes in her back pocket.
London was by far the coldest hell Gio had ever been in.
Her breath streams ahead of her, hot and damp, as her rain-wet hands grip at the strap of the duffel bag clutched protectively to her side. There was a cafe that she could have waited in, a pub that served fried fish and french fries wrapped in newspaper. A music store that, under different circumstances, she might’ve enjoyed browsing. But she’s remained stubbornly stationed at her curb —accruing rain, and agitation, with compounded interest.
Until a car rolls up, it’s headlights cutting through the ever-present downpour.
Gio doesn’t move as the black car creeps down the curb. When the window cracks, rolls down, Gio bends forward with her arms crossed tight against her chest. She squints at the man in the driver’s seat, tawny almond eyes fighting to make him out in the failing night light.
She shields her gaze from the rain with one hand, projects her voice so that it rings solid in her chest —so that this man, whoever he actually is, can't hear how badly she's been shivering. Her voice is thick with her Boyle Height accent, clipped with impatience.
“You Kerry, or no?”
@punkzombie was late for pick-up
