the puddle andthe building

I love April. At no other time of year does the rain feel like a cleaning product,swilling around and changing the mood you inherited from last night's driking into a 20-20 mood of smiles and handshakes and fresh ideas,actually believing that the people you meet are lovely and great and willing to listen before talking. If you like rain it's possible to enjoy city streets to the full,being the only one walking with your body turned outwards,looking,to the masses under tortoise shells,like a suicide case about to explode,one desperate to teach them a lesson for their conspiracy of cowardice. I'm not sure if that isn't the only reason for liking the rain,the seperation from other people,after all, when it's stopped and you're piss wet through it isn't much fun. But then again, there is That street corner where the road dips too low for the pavement,creating a mirrored lake that was rippled by the passing of a motorbike,rippling her image like she could look in a dream,all sepia haze and blurry features,giving me a splice of her life i could choose to never forget.
The newspaper vendor didn't only seem indifferent to the news,he was nearly asleep,relying on his brothers and sisters to leave the right change,and although he'd had time to get used to the news(it was nearly 4pm)i wanted to shake the fat hairy bastard awake and scream in his face. But,nobody else seemed too alarmed and i wanted a day without upset. I wish i could have been there to stop these headlines happening and it won't be a surprise to me to spend all day thinking about what i reckon i would have done. I always stop short of killing them,giving it all the point of a sex fantasy in which i don't get dirty but instead wear a condom;I arrive out of nowhere and my weapons materialise out of thin air,the meanest looking one in the group always my victim,carving knife to his throat and his nose between my teeth,i douse him and his friends and one of them illuminates the street but if i see anything that even resembles a corpse i rewind,and dwell on the fact she's alright in my head,and i don't need to go through with the violence.
32 years of age. Engaged to a Rupert Maloney,(Jesus,maybe he should have been the one to get attacked,for that name alone)co-workers at the embassy are shocked and disgusted and all of them are wishing her well. Her boss,Steven Tompkins,gave a brief statement: "I've known Kathy for seven years and she's come to be recognised as an efficient worker and a trustworthy friend of all employees. We wish her a fast recovery". He doesn't sound very upset. Maybe he'll miss her cups of tea and afternoon flirts. That'll probably be his alibi. Police are said to be running tests on evidence found at the scene. The Scene being where i'm walking. Tourists who've never seen this street before look unaware and they can be forgiven but for every city worker that treads this route every day,expressionless through a lack of caring or self imposed coma i feel my stomach turn and start to rebel. I feel a sharpness run somewhere up my back to my stomach and i let out a little yelp and grab on to a lamp post for balance. A relief synonymous with post puking relaxation brings its own deep breaths and i smile at a couple that look a bit worried about me but a little too cautious to come any closer.I nod thanks and start walking again. By the time i get to the end of the street i may have had to let my anger subside, but Kathy Whoever will still be in hospital. And so goes the process of sparing a thought for others. Whatever. She was probably upper middle class anyway,making the front page for this alone. RUPERT MALONEY? Who the fuck wouldn't change that name. He probably arranged the whole thing to get that name in print and a sympathy hand from the up and coming office girls. Maybe Kathy Whoever will be able to start again somewhere. Another country or a change of post code at least,leaving Maloney the croney to do his own homework.
Casandra walks home alone after work and i worry about her. Hopefully her height confuses the passing eyes that crawl along at the wheel of their wive's car.