All the wet metal

This morning, I woke up to mist and gorged condensation on my sliding door, the key hole outside, Pat’s sweater I’ve left drying for a few days that I’ll have to leave drying for a few more now. I must have slept through one massive storm, the way water sprayed itself onto my balcony.
The light outside the front door is broken again. I understand know why it was broken in the first place. Whenever it rains, and It’s been more often this past month than you would think in the desert, the water leaks through the roof and into the light fixture so it’s completely drowned in red dirt water. I’ll tell the office eventually. I’m going to be one of those annoying tenants that won’t settle for darkness. Do all the little things ever fall into place without you pushing them?
I’ve noticed lines through the city. Seemingly everywhere. I’m not sure why, maybe it’s just new architecture or how everything is laid on a grid here. The streets, the garages, even the clouds in view from my office have some sort of order.
But then a woman on the light rail rips haphazardly the Dear Abby column out of the newspaper, desperate for free advice; and another woman with a black eye stands under the weight of her boyfriend’s arm, as her child digs into a chili cheese fritos bag; a businessman’s half painted toes; the little boy sitting next to me eyeing the book in my hand: these things have no end points. I imagine he asks me what I’m reading. I imagine telling him it’s a love story.

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