Timing

I'm sitting outside the coffee shop,

cup in my hand, still steaming,

when the sprinkler system decides

it's time.

The arc of water catches me mid-sip.

Not gentle. Not merciful.

The kind of spray that makes you understand

why people yell at weather,

why they shake their fists at timing,

at the arbitrary moment when the world

decides to interrupt.

My bag is soaked. My shoulder is soaked.

The cup is still warm in my hand—

at least that part didn't change.

At least I'm still holding something

that was meant to be there.

I don't move. I sit there getting wet,

watching other people react the way

you're supposed to react to unexpected water—

running, cursing, taking it personally.

But I just sit. Because what's the point.

The system will finish its cycle.

My clothes will dry. Or they won't.

The coffee will get cold. Or it will stay

this temperature forever, suspended

in the moment right before

the world decided to interrupt.

The water keeps coming. It's almost gentle now,

the way I've accepted it.

My phone is probably ruined.

My hair is dripping.

And I'm thinking about how nothing

asks permission. How nothing waits

for you to be ready.

How a building can just decide

to water itself at the wrong time,

and you can do nothing but sit there,

cup in hand, steaming, waiting

for it to be over.

Waiting for it to be over is something

I'm getting very good at.