The Wistful Petal
The rain does not fall. It presses. It leans against the glass of the taxi window, a gray hand seeking purchase. You are not driving. You are the passenger. This is the first error. The second is that you do not remember boarding. The driver does not speak. His neck is thick, red, strained by the effort of holding his head up. The car smells of wet wool and old pennies. You look at your hands....
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