Taking Shelter

In my old life, the sky was either blue or grey. I had no reason to notice its myriad shifting hues, much less consider how threatening any particular shade might be to my survival. Today, the winter sky is mottled like the outer surface of an oyster shell with seamless layers of damp, shadowy clouds. It means this icy, soaking rain has settled in for a while.

I stand under the faded awning of a Church’s Chicken that burned last year. I barely fit in the miniscule dry patch beneath its sooty canvas, and the droplets splashing off the cracked sidewalk have soaked my shoes. These shoes were sturdy and expensive. For now, they are still in one piece, and my clothes look clean. I could still be someone with money in his pocket, so no one has yet asked me to leave.

A young woman in a navy overcoat stops to shake her umbrella before entering the flower shop next door. The umbrella is one of the big ones and would easily provide twice the refuge of my tattered awning. She leaves it leaning against a brick planter when she goes inside. The fogged shop windows ensure that she can no longer see me, if she ever noticed me here at all.

How I lost my home is not important. Surviving is what matters now, and keeping dry is one of the first lessons I learned out here. Wet clothes mean hypothermia, maybe sickness. People die from less. The umbrella’s handle is an arm’s length away. I know how its padded grip would feel in my hand. I could take its portable freedom and walk down the street like the man I used to be instead of cowering in this cramped vestibule, like an animal.

296 Words, Prompt - Umbrella, Chicken, Brick