Rain ruins the church picnic. Everyone oh no-s, runs to their cars. A blessing for you and me, though: Eve and Eve, we run hand-in-hand the other way. Rain ruins the uptight curls my mother rolled, blesses me with hair too flat to suit the pastor’s son. Dry from the hymns and the fried chicken, I catch drops until I’m able to speak. I don’t like Adam. I like you. Rain then ruins me for anyone else. White Sunday blouses soaked sheer, our wet fingers tremble until they come searching and don’t find us in the Bible.
Karen writes short in a low Canadian basement. Her work is in or forthcoming in The Bear Creek Gazette, Emerge Literary Journal, Bullshit Lit, Janus Literary, and others. She/her. @MeKawalker883