Angela Moriss

There was a job offer, but she wasn't certain it was for her. It meant going into an office, the office, again. The people, in person, were not her biggest problem. It was the time involved in commuting. By the time travel and lunch were added the job was 15 hours more per week than staying at home. 55 hours instead of 40 was a considerable change. She would need to be paid an extra 37% to make the same amount per hour. This weighed on her, but the finding of clients and keeping them happy was wearing her down.

Ryan was like a cheap suit: he looked good for the first five minutes, but as he moved about in his chair and drank with a sneer and spoke and spoke and spoke all the clean lines and desirable accents faded and wrinkled. As she waiting for moments to speak herself, she thought about mother and all the boyfriends she brought home. Each season brought with it a new man, once or twice it might have been a woman, but Angela was never sure about the women that hung around when there was no man. Often when she was really young, she had cried for the first few weeks before making a full adjustment. Sometimes it was at the loss of the former and others at the gain of the current, but there were usually tears.

It was raining. Again. Today would mark two weeks of rain, everyday, by Angela's count. Not rain every second during that time; there had been breaks, just rain each day at least once. It was not a misty, sputtering rain. None of it had been. At some point during each day there had been a solid downpour, which is what she was counting.

She wondered how there could be that much moisture in the air, over and over again for such a period of time. Curious, she searched for the records, and found that the rain was quite localized. Northeast Illinois seemed to be the only place getting the rain, as if it were part of some science experiment. This was exactly how Angela thought about it: meteorological experiment.

The water was pooled on the streets - the drains refusing to accept anymore water. The river was high, nearly touching the bridges. She wondered how many basements were filled; how many garden apartments ruined.

Angela looked down from the balcony to the street below. Tiny people moved about, cars flowed in a stop and go march from stop light to stop light, smaller than matchbox cars. Her black hair hung down around her head, a veil surrounding her face. The world looked marginal from this height and she felt quite indifferent to its nagging desires.

The sun was just above the horizon on this autumn morning. A damp chill was on the wind and the smell of decaying leaves in the air. But Angela felt alive, invigorated as the world made its final steps toward the winter slumber. She was ready to meet Ryan in person, in real life.

She stood on the sand, watching the water swell in rows rolling toward the shore. They reached top speed, crested, turned to waves crashed down on the beach. The foamy remnants never quite reached her feet. Birds, she was not sure which kind, white with black streaks under their eyes, rushed in and out of the surf, looking for whatever it was they were searching for.

A light breeze tickled her skin and played with her hair. Angela watched the horizon, wondering if she would find a boat. There were not many, if any, out once the weather turned this cold. Cold was not the right word; when chunks of ice bobbed endlessly against each other, then it would be cold. Autumn was in the air - the smells, the chill, the fewer hours of daylight.