A Fall of Spring Rain

by Cathe Lieb


"I met the sweetest guy at the coffee house,"
she says, taking off the wet coat
and hanging it carefully on the shower head,
raindrops falling like small diamonds into the tub below.

He looks at her and knows before she does
that she would be leaving him.

"He works at the University. He was so amusing,"
she whispers, shaking her head so
her long hair whips around,
the warm air in the room lifting each golden strand.

He remembers when they'd met over coffee
and he knows he will miss her terribly.

"There's something about him - something . . . different."
She pauses, cocking her head to the side
looking at him with eyes that grow suddenly sad,
the possibility of tears filling them.

He sits down on the hard chair waiting for the words
that will say it is over.

"Jess," she speaks the name as if it is the first time she has said it.
"Jess," again, as if the word could fill the empty space between them
and knowing that no words can she turns and leaves the room,
leaving only the smell of damp leaves and spring rain.

And sitting on the chair Jess wonders how he could have known -
and how he could not have.


* * * * *

Cathe Lieb lives and picks up rocks in Oregon. She randomly pets dogs and runs a free library out of a retired phone booth. Her house backs up to a bit of forest with a seasonal creek. She dreams of ghosts and time travel.