Morning Rain, Wet Shoulders
It was an alley where the sound of morning rain hadn't quite faded. Gray air seeped in between collars, and from the asphalt rose the smell of wet earth. One person held the umbrella, and the person beside matched their shoulder to its edge. There was one umbrella. The rain went on thinly, and the two people's steps slowed to match it. The left shoulder of the one beside took on moisture. The one holding the umbrella tilted it a little, and the other, head lowered, moved half a step that way without a word. A moment later, the umbrella tilted back toward the other side. Listening to the raindrops touch his sleeve, he thought of handing the whole umbrella over so the other wouldn't get wet. Then he gripped the handle and simply walked. The one beside didn't try to take it either. Both their shoulders were gradually getting wet. He was just about to reach out and hand over the umbrella.
After the rain cleared, an abandoned umbrella lay sprawled in the alley, and when I looked, it was caught on the green thorns of the rose by the gate. A drop of water hung from every thorn. As the umbrella's black cloth dried, it was slowly taking in the spring sunlight.
When I passed through that alley again days later, the umbrella was still there. The mark where the thorn caught it had gouged the cloth, and whenever it rained, it hung with drops of water again.
Though the morning rain had stopped, the drops gathered on the glass roof of the bus shelter kept falling for a long while. Water was still seeping from the hem of someone who had just passed through.
Listening to those drops fall, the two of them did not check each other's wet shoulders until the bus came.