It’s raining out. 8:39 at night -  I can hear it against my window. Steady, and melodious, but heavy, like some fat chick banging on the side of a Dunkin’ Donuts Shop because she needs her breakfast.

You like the rain. Up close and in your face.

I only like it from far away.

And so we are different.

I remember you told me at the crosswalk. It was dark with clouds and rain. The streetlights bounced off of the pavement so we could at least see the car before we’re hit.

We walk the same way every day and yet those are the first words you have spoken to me in weeks. I wonder now if you missed the sound of my voice; the same way that I missed yours.

I have both an LA Dodger hat and a hood over my head.

You wear nothing on yours - thick, curly hair, sopping.

And so we are different.

I’m cold, and I’m wet, and I’m miserable. Yet, I do not hate it. Yet, I say that I do, thinking that you would say the same. Thus, we could be similar.

The rain pours down overhead, and I’m practically screaming over the sound of it.

Surely you must be cold, surely you must want a ride home. I have a car. You have to walk. Surely, surely - surely enough, I want us to keep talking.

Of all the times we have walked this way, your legs carry you like some ridiculous biker on a tricycle (because that’s what a three-wheeled motorcycle is: a tricycle. Not something cool. A tricycle.) driving down the I-90 at 85 miles an hour, handlebar mustache flapping in the wind, fucking sunglasses and leather jackets and cowboy boots that just don’t belong anywhere in that ensemble. That’s you, you know. An eighty-year-old biker. Ridiculous and eager to leave, yet so angry and serious. Where do you have to go, anyway?

But then, in that goddamned rain, you walk slower than those annoying couples do at the mall: the ones that you can never seem to get around so you end up do a stupid dance of bouncing back and forth, trying to go one way or another. It’s pouring rain! And you decide to take a walk in the park! I’m already five feet ahead of you! Arms crossed, head down. I’m shuffling my feet I’m so cold!

But, I want to walk with you

But you, with the rain.

And so we are different.

I’m mad at you, you know. I can never seem to tell you that in person. I’m mad at you because you hurt me. Or perhaps I’m mad at you because I’m too sensitive. Or perhaps it’s because you’re not doing what I want you to do. Or perhaps -

Or perhaps we used to be friends! Don’t you remember? Every day in that English class? You sitting behind me? Your stupid and sarcastic comments? You would whisper something in my ear, then I would lean back to reply, or say something even more stupid. We talked like friends would, about family, religion, track; I would tell you stories about what we were learning. I think - I thought - you liked them more because I at least made them interesting! And what about this year? Studying at frickin Starbucks? I accidentally run into you and our other friend there and we end up studying together for a week? Even after he left, you stayed! Why? Was it all in my head? Or my stupid teenage girl heart?

You stopped talking to me.

Yet I continued.

And so we are different.

And you did. You stopped talking to me. Slowly, at first. Then altogether. You’d come back for a day, maybe two - only to leave again. And I don’t know why. I’d ask you how your day was, but you would just reply with: “why do you care?”, or something bitchy like that. Are you being sarcastic? I’m socially awkward: I can’t tell! Is that just you? I swear you’re worse than a bipolar girl on her period! What happened to us?

I mean, I know there wasn’t an ‘us’ to begin with;  I actually enjoyed talking to you. You may not hear it very often, because you push people away. Or you’re just an asshole. I think you’re interesting and funny and, frankly, I just want my friend back.

We were friends once.

I remember, you don’t.

And so we are different.

GOSH, I’m angry with you! So frickin’ angry! But, at the same time, I’m not.

I’m mad at myself.

Because I started to like you more than I should have. Because I actually let myself get close to you. I actually thought we were friends. Or, at least, more than acquaintances. You allowed me to walk through my crazy thoughts and then challenged them with your questions. I suppose I needed someone like that.  

Though, I’m still mad at you, because you’re also a dick.

You see, I tried not to be over-dramatic. But I am an emotional piece of shit, so, there’s that.

It’s not raining anymore. 9:42. I think I’ll wait for tomorrow’s forecast.