George Korolog

The Color of Rain

Droplets pelt the windshield opaque as I edge inward behind the line of cars stacked up at the freeway exit. My stomach unlocks a slow boil, the outcome of distance reduced to inches, a deluge and a two day old argument with my wife. Now it has come to this. Surrounded by a cortege of metal caskets stacked and backing up like wounded soldiers, I'm in retreat, sitting uneasily, looking into the rear view mirror, thinking that for sure, this time, I'm going to end up as a bold sixteen point headline in the morning paper, another casualty of poor timing and visibility.

Be inanimate
Calm as a lotus blossom
Even love is late

In front of me a man with a fading dragon tattoo on his neck is pounding his hand blue on the steering wheel, lurching forward and backward, a manic metronome. I can see his spit dripping down the inside of the windshield. There is the scent of crackling ozone coalescing with sweat and gathering into a heavy mist around my feet. The road is scorching with indignation. I've got ice cream in the car, homework to do with my son, my cell phone is dead and I promised to talk with my wife about the troubles in our marriage.

The rain dies red
Leaving is never easy
The car is running