The sand-coloured wooden hut offers protection. It’s mauve-cushioned seats welcome you. True, there’s an entire building between me and the torrential rain, but something about the hut comforts me.
A flock of girls also take cover, gathered around one corner of the large olive couch (surely, they could spread out a little rather than sit on each other’s Designer Knees?) and chirp like Seagulls gathered around a juicy piece of gossip.
The sound of high-heeled shoes echoes against the floor.
click click clickclick click clickclickclick click click click
Trees outside wave for help against the wind, green leaves reach out desperate to grab onto something, but they are only ignored by the girl – unprotected by my Hut – that is fighting for survival herself. She struggles with a plastic mac over her head, chestnut hair at a 180-degree angle, and looks at me, jealous of the hut that protects m – oh, dear God, she’s looking at me, pretend you’re a moody artist staring at the rain, oh God.
click click clickclickclick click click click
“I don’t know what’s wrong with her, but maybe, maybe—”
“Is she a creative writer, or something?”
Snippets of conversation swim their way to me amidst the wails of the weather. I don’t know whether the scraps are linked, but I wouldn’t be shocked.
Rain and wind crash against the glass window, like the ocean smacks a cliff, and drowns out the eight-or-so girls, so I turn my attention to my little safety hut.
click click click clickclickclick click click clickclick click click click click
A lamp stands tall at the edge of the hut’s table, his white arm stretched proudly high to defeat the darkness, unaware that he is OFF on the wall. He’s humble, turned to face the wall shyly; he doesn’t want you to thank him, he’s just doing his job.
click click click click click click clickclickclick click click
Rays of light trample the gales and dominate the sky. The flock of girls leave; it’s safe to venture out once more.