Misting

I stepped out from behind the glass doors and walked out onto the darkened cement, wet from last night’s rain. A fine mist sprayed my face as I turned left and walked towards the end of the street. The mist gathered around me. It stuck my leather jacket to my arms. My black bag with the piano keys was thick and protected the thin papers that lay inside its wide cavity.

Twenty minutes later and I am nearing my destination. The cold droplets still pelt my face, larger now. I wipe away at them, not able to discern the wetness as mist or sweat. My breath is heavier than normal, but my legs carry me forward until I reach the slight ramp leading to the big red door that marks the entrance of The Rutgers Club.

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