Rain drips down the windowpanes. Drip, drip, drip. The sky is grey wool, soft and enclosing. The room in which I sit is raised into enhanced warmth, light leeching from every pore. My socks don't match, and they always have holes in them somewhere. Gazing out of my window at the world, I see people hurrying along, trying not to get wet, laughing, shivering, flirting beneath one umbrella. Lovers stroll by, twined together like string, sharing warmth, trapping words between them. One body walks along, nondescript in a black coat, head bent beneath the weight of the everpresent drops. I notice them because they sit on the pavement, and stare back at me. Me, but not me. They gaze up at the trees, the house facing them, never seeing the face at the window, the light in the window. Then, they straighten, and spin around, arms wide, head back, hair streaming. Then, they bow, as if to an imaginary audience, and walk away, a smile tugging at their mouth.
I want to know where they go, why they put on a show for me.