One-Shots: 1

He always thought that walking home in the rain was something sacred.  There was the pitter-patter of the raindrops upon his umbrella as they fell from the tree tops and the telephone lines.  The subtle crunch of grass as he crossed off the road and over to the pavement sidewalk.  His oversized yellow boots squeaked as they pressed against the grass.  There was always the song of the birds.  Even in the hardest of downpours he could make out the tweeting up above.

He headed deeper into the park.  It was only during rainstorms and drizzles that he would divert his regular path home to walk under the trees and among the empty benches and playground equipment.  He breathed in, filling his lungs slowly.  It was as if someone had opened up a faucet, with a hose connected straight to him.  It was a faucet that would fill him with renewal.

And today was especially special.  Today was a sun shower.  Today the afternoon sun’s golden rays could intermingle among raindrops and drooping branches.  Walking home in the rain was something sacred.  Walking home during a sun shower was something rare and beautiful and invigorating.  He would like to imagine that Midas was touching the park around him and turning the place into a golden wonderland.  At the same time he could imagine Midas crying as he touched each thing.

It was enough to bring a tear to his eyes.

As he wiped a tear from his eye he spotted something moving through the trees.  It wasn’t the breeze and it wasn’t a bird flitting between tree and tree.  He stopped and turned and looked.  There was someone there, someone between the trees.

All the times that it had rained, (all one hundred and forty seven of them since he moved to the city,) no one had been outside while he had.  Slowly he walked through the trees.  He ducked under boughs and sidestepped through bushes.  He squelched to a stop on the other side of the trees.  His umbrella felt heavy.  He looked up.  A branch was resting upon it.  He stepped forward, and was showered with droplets of golden hued rain as it splattered from the branch.

Up ahead she turned to him, the sound of the springing branch calling to her.  She was dressed in a long white dress.  Her dark hair stuck to her brow and her neck.  Wet splotches dotted her shoulders and her chest.  Her eyes shot him a questioning look, the dark green daring to ask what she hadn’t said with her words.  His eyes traveled past her nose to her too-small mouth, which was opened slightly in…surprise?  That open mouth slowly changed to an upturned smiled, the edges of it crinkling her eyes.

Behind her stood an easel, a half-painted canvas resting upon it.  Her hands still held the painter’s brush and palette.  He couldn’t see exactly what it was that she was painting.  But he could catch glimpses of it from around her body.  A large, wide-brimmed straw hat hung from the easel.  A large, bright blue ribbon was tied around it, the ends of it floated in the breeze.

His eyes returned to her.  She was still smiling at him.  He became very self-conscious of the too-large rubber boots and the umbrella which he bore.  It had been his sisters, and she had left it there last time she had visited.  Bright pink, it bore a comically oversized white cat upon it, waving up to the clouds above.  It was if it was saying: “Hello!  I’m here and ready for fun!”

His free hand tugged absently at his collar, attempting to loosen the bowtie and the grip it had upon his breathing.  His eyes returned to her own.  He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.  He wasn’t quite sure how long he stared at her, or her at him.  At some point he smiled, gesturing with his umbrella.  She did the same with her brush.

He turned, and continued his walk through the grass.  He could feel eyes staring into his back as he walked away.  It was as if she was questioning why he had disturbed her sacred time, and not the other way around.  The smile didn’t quite leave his eyes as he rounded a corner and delved deeper into the park.

Midas was out and about, crying among the birds.