We’ve met before.
Last week, in fact, when I was passing through the area and
set my bag into a puddle of you that was somehow temporarily obscured by the
flickering fluorescent light. Unfortunately, I didn’t realize it at the time,
and it wasn’t until I had hoisted the bag onto my shoulder and found that the
side of my blouse (dry-clean only, if you must know) was damp, that I was able
to identify the culprit.
It was you.
Sometimes you are not wet, but sticky.
Sometimes you are dry, with muddy footprints.
But mostly you are slick, and I have to negotiate each step
carefully, hiking up the hems of my dress slacks.
This is curious, because the hallway outside the door is
dry. The line at the counter, full of angsty patrons, is dry. Outside, on the
concrete walkway and in the asphalt parking lot, it is dry.
In fact, it has not rained here for weeks, and it’s possible
that it won’t rain again for months.
This leaves only a few possibilities for your origin.
But I’m going to go with bioterrorism, since it is at least
slightly less icky.
Regards,
Girl Who Needs Galoshes
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