All the colors outside the window come loose and run. A teal awning, signs in orange and yellow, a brick-colored mass have lost their boundaries with one another in the wet. The camera let go of the scene outside and focused on the drops beaded on the glass.
Thick beads cling densely across the whole window, and a few of them, unable to bear their own weight, draw long lines downward. Near the window frame the water gathers and spreads into white. Light that cannot be told as afternoon or evening runs down along those streaks.
Standing close to a window like this, the eyes wander for a moment. Try to read the signs and the drops blur, look into the drops and the colors smear. When a few seconds pass without either one being chosen, the shoulders come down a little on their own.
The soles of the feet press the floor a little more widely. The fingertips stay just short of touching the cold glass. The breath grows one beat longer.
Only then do you notice that the urge to see clearly had been stuck behind your eyes all day long.
It would be good to stand at the window, close your eyes and take one minute to listen only to the rain. The sound falling from the eaves, the sound tapping the glass, the sound spreading over the asphalt in the distance are heard split into layers. You do not count the sounds, you just let them pass.
One minute is short, so it ends before you have properly heard it all. Once it is over, the signs outside the window are still there, still blurred.
The same one minute can be moved to the time spent washing dishes. While listening to the tap water striking the inside of a bowl and to the bubbles going out, you check the force in your jaw. Whether the back teeth are pressed together or slightly apart, just checking is enough.
You do not have to write down what changes. It is enough to remember only whether that force stayed the same until all the dishes were washed.
The rain does not wet the window evenly. Some lines run all the way down, and some drops stay hanging into the evening.
