Tags: black book

Black book

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Today, I was driving.

Today I was driving through surreal Eureka and I watched the rain come out of a sunny blue sky, no rainbows in my vision.  I didn't drive far, nothing more than a couple of narrow miles.  I saw three women with the same nylon, black, thin as the receipt sitting in the bottom of your purse for months umbrella.  Each umbrella was broken.  The same umbrella was broken in three different ways.  The girl at the F corner with Jo-Ann's on one side (I saw Wesly get off the bus) with the round, angry face wearing round, angry clothes - her umbrella number one was bent at an awkward angle on one of it's spindly aluminum hinged spreaders.  It was drooping, looking sad, looking melted in the sun under the rain, and the girl was hiding from both.  Umbrella number two belonged to one-half of an elderly couple.  I seem them often, him pushing her around, her under blankets, his beard sometimes in her hair.  I wonder if everything they have is broken in some way, refusing to open entirely, maybe rusted.  Umbrella the third belonged to a woman in tight blue jeans waking sternly, forcefully, going places.  Big dark glasses and an umbrella with it's one skinny leg showing, giving us a little strip tease, unbeknownst to this entrepreneurial young lady.  Teasing above her head like some telling halo. 

Today, I drove, and I made it home without getting into an accident.