Rain drips. She listens to the sound of her own stilettos popping on concrete. She wonders what she got so dressed up for; for a walk in the rain, a smoke in the cleansed night air, a flicker of something other than normal. She thinks about herself in the third person a lot. She thinks about what people think of her. She thinks about what people think of her more than she thinks about other people, as individuals separate from their judgements of her. It's a bad habit, and recently something's been encouraging her to face it.
Her fingers cling to the edge of her coat. Damp faux fur. Damp hair. Damp skin. Damp city.