What Doesn't Belong

After the rain, I found it—

a puddle in the parking lot,

nothing special,

except the light was hitting it

in a way that made it look

like a bruise

or a flower

or something dying

that was also being born.

The colors moved across the surface:

purple, green, black, then back again,

shifting like the puddle was breathing,

like it was alive

in a way puddles aren't supposed to be.

I stood there longer than I should have.

My manager walked past.

I pretended I was looking at my car,

checking for something,

doing something normal

instead of staring at

a puddle of oil

like it was the most beautiful thing

in the lot.

Because it was, and that's wrong.

That's wrong because it's not beautiful.

It's a leak.

It's damage.

It's proof that something broke

and is still breaking,

still staining the water

with proof

of what we do.

But the light kept hitting it,

and the colors kept moving,

and I couldn't look away

because it felt like

looking at something I shouldn't see,

like catching someone

at their worst

and realizing they're still beautiful,

still compelling,

still worth the time

it takes to stand there

and watch them

fall apart.

I didn't take a picture.

I just watched it.

And then I went inside

and clocked in

and did my job

and tried to forget

that I'd spent five minutes

looking at a puddle

like it meant something,

like broken things can still

catch the light

in ways that matter.