Writing: Of Habits and Rain

    It's been sometime since I last posted, and I apologize for it. Life has been a bit busy, getting back into school and then my family and I were out and about in Seoul over the four-day weekend due to Martin Luther King Jr. Day.

    Of Habits and Rain is basically a random scrawl. I don't really remember where the inspiration came from now, but it may have had to do with The Amazing Spider-Man.

    It's mostly self-explanatory in a rather ambiguous way, so it doesn't need explaining. The style, though, you might notice, is a bit different. I tried my hand at writing in 100 word segments. 100 words on the dot, I might add. It's a bit challenging, both to keep the word-count down and to try and infuse the emotion into the different sections. I don't think I did very well on that count, but I'll leave the decision up to you. The final word-count for this scrawl was 1,000 words, and it was easier to reach that tally than it usually is for me.

    (Also, the italic parts are her remembering, just in case it isn't clear.)


    She sits in the small café, watching the rain come down. On the table before her, her customary cup of tea sits with sugar already stirred in with the stick she’s placed to the side on a napkin.
    Her muffin has been picked apart, crumbling across another napkin. She doesn’t usually have much of an appetite for it, but what little she does eat of it is always delicious.
    A quiet sigh escapes and she stares out the window, seeing people hurry by, desperate to escape the cold.
    It’s been a year, and she’s still learning to live without him.

    The café door opens and closes with comforting regularity.
    The barista calls out orders as they finish, just as he’d done with hers fifteen minutes prior.
    The Earl Grey is still awaiting her attention, but Vienna knows it will probably be consumed on her way to work.
    After all, it’s a part of her routine.
    This is life now, and she is determined to leave the old behind.
    A small gust of air teases at the curls that escape her loose braid as another customer brushes past, aiming for the corner table.
    Once, they probably would’ve sat there, for safety.

    The clock reaches seven o’clock, and, like clockwork herself, Vienna rises. Collects her scarf and gloves, looping the former around her neck and tucking the latter into her pocket.
    The muffin, only half consumed, is put into a plastic bag in her purse to be eaten at a later time.
    Although she is a regular, there is no farewell, either from the staff or herself.
    Relationships are not something she puts much time into anymore.
    Taking her tea in one hand and her umbrella in the other, Vienna leaves the café to face the ten minute walk to her workplace.

    She is about to leave, pulling her bag up over her shoulder with slow movements.
    It’s hard to refrain from being disappointed.
    I really thought he would make it this time.
    The bell jingles and her head comes up, heart beating faster, hoping it’s him, only to be met with another stranger.
    The touch on her neck almost puts her into cardiac arrest. She whirls, ready to lash out. It’s him.
    He always looks older when he gets back, and Vienna hates it.
    But it is enough to have him back at all. She can’t ask for more than that.

    The wind tugs at her long jacket, seeping through the seams and chilling her through. Vienna used to hate weather like this; she appreciates the irony it brings now.
    It rained so often here. It seemed like it would’ve shone forever there.
    The downpour helps her forget who—what—she used to be. She can’t be that person anymore without becoming a shell.
    Although, she supposes she’s a shell as this person as well, but at least this way she can function. In that life, she would’ve broken down and stopped.
    Here, she has her routines. And they've saved her.

    Here, she can drown the memories in her five-thirty rising, her six o’clock run, her six-forty-five stop at the café before she walks to work at exactly seven, arriving by seven-twenty, at the latest.
    By seven-thirty, she is ready to officially begin her work day.
    Her boss is ideal for her new life. Serious, very business-like, and a workaholic.
    She takes a half-hour lunch break from noon to twelve-thirty. Then she continues to work until seven-thirty that night, sometimes before her superior leaves, sometimes after.
    His life is not regulated to the minutes as hers is. Probably a good thing.

    She rides the bus home, catching the seven-forty headed downtown that stops within five minutes of her apartment complex. It takes another five minutes to get into the building and reach her small apartment on the tenth floor.
    By then, it is near eight o’clock, either before or after. The bus’ schedule isn’t as accurate as she wishes it were, but she doesn’t blame them for it. Delays are inevitable in public transportation.
    Dinner depends on the day. Every meal in her freezer is planned from the Saturday prior, when she shops for it all.
    By eight-thirty, she is done.

    He leans to press his lips to hers and her fingertips find that spot beneath his jaw.
    “You taste like coffee,” Vienna murmurs against his mouth with a faint smile as she feels his heartbeat against her skin.
    She feels his quiet laugh as he rests his forehead on her shoulder. Her hand slides from his throat to curl into the hair at the nape of his neck.
    Neither of them care who might be watching. They never care.
    This is their tradition, one that can’t be broken because it is what they both need.
    To know they’re still okay.

    After eight-thirty, she doesn’t follow a pattern. Training has seen to it that she can still be aware when her alarm sounds at five-thirty the next morning, all sleep-loss aside.
    Often times she will read. She buys a new novel every Saturday along with her groceries and other necessities.
    Sometimes she will turn on the scarcely used TV and flip idly through the channels, usually settling on the news.
    Part of her still wants to keep up on what’s going on in the world, even though the rest of her wants to block it out.
    It’s not her job anymore.

    It’s only when Vienna finds herself awake late at night that she’ll think of that past life. No, not that past life. Of him.
    Is he still alive?
    Did he even notice her disappearance?
    Would he find her, somewhere in the midst of all these storms and habits? Would she let him find who he would be looking for?
    Did she want to be that person again?
    The sheets, cold against her legs, rustle as she sits up, burying her fingers in her hair, so much longer than she used to keep it.
    He would have loved it like this.


    And that's a wrap for Of Habits and Rain. Kind of an undecided ending, I know, but I couldn't think of how to continue it without going on for another few thousand words.

    Hopefully, the feeling you've come away with is a mixture of nostalgia, regret, and... hm. That's all I've got. Maybe just a realization that Vienna used to be a much freer soul and that the routines, habits, and schedules that make up her life now are her way of being able to keep going.

    I might post more in a bit, but I need to glance over the Jaz scrawls I did in this same format. They turned out being a bit more, erm, risqué than my stuff usually is. I'll probably just put up the first part.

   Thank you for reading and feedback of any sort is always welcome!

   Ad astra per aspera.
   To the stars, through difficulties.