Morning on Wet Asphalt

No light comes through the curtains. Instead, the sound of something tapping the window fills the room. My second day here, in an unfamiliar neighborhood, the morning is heavy as wet asphalt. One person walks without an umbrella; stopped at the crosswalk, he looks up at the sky for a moment. I can't see his expression. Following a raindrop down the window frame, my gaze drops to where streetlight trembles on the puddled rain. Eight in the morning and still dark, the coffee scent left in the room going cold. Where shall I walk today? I set a finger on the map.