rains. And it's cold.
The train will depart from the station a quarter of an hour: jeans, shoes, bag packed with books, jacket, hat. Got everything? I run to the track, I take breath, as always in advance. With the mini umbrella, I try not too wet, hard task but I can not do otherwise: it is the only size that you can kick in exchange, I had an umbrella along the forgotten somewhere within an hour. The train arrives and wins a place trying not to wonder what the hell are those gray-brown stains on the seat. I try to detach the water from the umbrella, I try to place the bag somewhere, I try to undo his jacket, and will not to find a comfortable position without put an elbow in the side of the airport (and vice versa). After half an hour of travel are sweaty, tired and nervous. And here I see her sitting nearby: high, precise, impeccably dressed. That seems so at ease sitting at the bar behind the house: high heels, beige raincoat, her hair in a queue, smile. Osa smile at eight in the morning on the train to Milan! I look reflected in the window: his hair matted and wet, dark circles. The shoes are soaking wet and so obviously a large part of the pants below the knee. A series of questions arises: because she is not wet? Why is it still impeccably coiffed? Because he has had time to wear makeup? Because the jacket is still beige? I do not have time to answer that here, the train stops, and all go down. While I try in vain to open the umbrella without splattered him all I can see the remnants dart away into the crowd circling quiet on her heels and carrying a big bag but that seems to me as light as a feather. And, unbelievable, yet it is not wet, breathless, broken up. Maybe I've done something wrong? Maybe there's a single cloud that follows me constantly fantozziana? Resigned, I start outside the station. must be a matter of style or you have it or you do not have. But I, for my efforts, I do not know what to do: When it rains, my bathroom.
