(Just a bit of fluff.)
I sit in glass doorways at lunch, limbs outstretched to the limit of their skin. My Florida soul feeds on sunlight. But I live in the dark, rising before the sun and barely chasing it home, always with the car between us. My office window overlooks the shadow of a roof. The sunlight teases, reflecting off of cars and trees, but never me. I catch it at lunch, warming a concrete stoop. Book and bag in hand, I throw myself at it. It welcomes me by sucking the moisture from my skin, a heat that tingles before it burns.
Before I can enjoy it long, that marvelous Florida sun, a raindrop falls and hits my open book. I stare at it for a second, that big wet punctuation mark. But there's no use trying to pretend it doesn't exist. Up North, where suns are meek and clouds aren't raging beasts, you might be able to bide your time. Not here. Where one drop falls, three thousand more are sure to come. So I retreat from the sun, not a moment too soon, to that doorway in filtered air and light. And my needful soul consoles itself in the fingers and toes of my outstretched limbs.