“I love when it rains,” she murmured into her pillow…
to no one in particular. Maybe to the walls she painted the day before. She’d pulled all the furniture to one side of the studio apartment, hauled a gallon of paint up the linoleum covered stairs, and stripped down to a beat up tee shirt and a pair of black cotton underwear. The only view outside the apartment widows was a brick wall with ivy growing on it. One had to open it all the way and lean haphazardly out of it to even see a person.
She’s showered after the job had been done. Sad to see all the paint on her legs and arms go. It was as if a new defining feature was gone. She woke, to rain pouring down reminding her that the summer would soon end. That her new apartment was becoming hers, with each rain, with each day she fixed, or painted something new.
‘I love when it rains,’ she murmured a little clearer to no one in particular.
(Prompted sentence in bold provided by Thomas of slowfi)