Perfection

Her dress came down below her knees, but didn't touch her feet. Her feet were coated in a layer of sock, and then shoe, and they never touched grass. What feet were these, which, in the course of a lifetime, had never touched grass? Only hers, although they could be anybody's. They touched the soles of shoes and they touched bare carpet and cold marble and even prickly cement, but they stopped there. The grass was too prickly for them.1

She stood gazing at the meadow in which she stood, dimly aware of the raindrops softly hitting the curve of her umbrella. Around her, nature embraced the rain. The grass seemed to almost reach up to drink it. The trees stood silently, branches darknened and leaves drooping, soaked. She thought she could hear the grass beneath her umbrella crying silently for the rain. She had no right to deprive them; but what did she care? Her heart was crying too, just as loudly as they, and every syllable hung damp in the air like silence. The rain was a good thing. Even if not, it was necessary.2

He had told her to wait here, and he would be here. Yes, he would be here. Just a minute longer, his form would appear leaning against that tree, smiling. It was this meadow, exactly, an hour from now, a minute from now. No one else was in sight.3

It was a beautiful meadow. The rain was only a light shower. She thought that she saw someone moving in the grass. Was it him? No, but a small brown rabbit with fur wet from the rain. The rabbit looked at her, moved its ears - such long ears. The rabbits were for eating the grass, of course. Or they were for feeding the foxes. Didn't foxes eat rabbits? Something did. She wasn't sure what, but something did. 4

She stood alone, holding her umbrella, waiting for somebody. Who? Oh, just somebody. That's not important. He's the light of my life and he's the love of my life and the light of my love and whatnot. Just somebody. She stood alone.5

Her umbrella did its job wonderfully, and she was dry beneath it, shielded from the rain.