Drip, drip, pitter-patter. She laid her heavy head against the window and listened. Rain on a Sunday sounded different. Drip, drop. Cars glided over puddles. Whoosh. Boots belonging to strangers stomped in puddles. Plop. She imagined herself the water, dripping off leaves, resting on faces. Tap, tap. Catching people unaware, surprising them with her light sounds and beats.
She had tried to fold herself into shapes, to fit in perfect boxes – inhibited by limbs, her solid, formed flesh. Thunk, creak. In all her years being dry, she just wanted to slip, drip into a puddle: form into the circle around her. Splish, splash.