The early hours have been and probably will always be Madeleine’s favorite dose of daily productive ambiguity. It’s 2.30am and the rain isn’t falling; but here she is with her sea drizzling.
What a gloomy sight that is. A girl should never have to walk in the rain unless she’s crying. And a girl shouldn’t be seen crying unless it’s under the rain. Those were the noises of desperate effort Vincent made in trying to pseudo-intellectually seduce this stunningly sensational woman who he thought was a damsel in distress in need of a pseudo-intellectual mind guiding her way leaving the art into the rain straight for her love of which he knew; under his umbrella of course. To make it even less bearable, he had a black umbrella. To be fair, it was either yellow or black – and he is already yellow – trust me, you do not want too many of those.
Or at least, that was what our boy thought he would love to do. In actuality, she just walked right into it, like a damsel in search of distress. And he stood there, stunned like a goose taking shit, thinking about what it could’ve been. And it could’ve been because of her stunning looking face, or the beanie, or maybe the skirt. Probably a combination of those and the rain. Mostly the rain. And she never looked back.
But Madeleine is crying for all the words she wishes Vincent had said. All those that got lost in the rain. She wishes those weren’t the last words under that umbrella, or above it raining. The words of his she was just playfully reciting. It was brief, it was quick, it wasn’t even in Vincent’s attention. And when it finally came to be, Vincent found himself to be even quicker to slip from her mind; even more so than her into his. Yet, she’s still here, hypothetically wondering if she should feel anything at all about Vincent not being here anymore. For her it never really did change much. She wasn’t aware of him before even with Vincent swimming in the same fishbowl – why would it be any different now, Vincent being here or not. She doesn’t know if Vincent is still here, she doesn’t know if it would make her feel any difference if he was, and she probably also wouldn’t know if she should care either. After all, it was quick, and it was brief, like the walk she took under that rain; eliminating all the chances for her to even start giving it attention or thinking about whether she even should.
Madeleine isn’t crying, it isn’t 2.42am, and she’s isn’t wondering about Vincent either. But Vincent does. He wonders if Madeleine ever did, would it be like this..?