The Sound of a Furious Rain
by L Mari Harris
Your best friend’s name is Rory. She has delicate freckles that stretch across the bridge of her nose, a larger one on her right eyelid that she dabs concealer on from a little tube she keeps in her back pocket. She used to let you trace it when you were in grade school when you curled up like mewing kittens seeking warmth during sleepovers; when thunderstorms cracked the night, and you shook and trembled. She scratched your back—the way your mom did—until your muscles finally released, and you fell into a fitful sleep until morning, when over big bowls of Lucky Charms, you told her you weren’t scared at all, not one bit. Knowingly, Rory smiled, milk dripping down her chin.
Rory is your best friend. She practically lives at your house. She curls up on your big sofa and watches you and your little brother practice single-leg takedowns and half-nelsons on the floor—the carpet, soft and forgiving.
You and Rory have been best friends for what seems like forever. She’s an old soul, and there’s still much you haven’t seen. Sometimes, she reaches out with the very tips of her fingers, stopping just before she grazes your hair, and tells you sad stories, stories you can only understand on a certain level because you have not lived as many lives as she has. She tells you how lucky you are to live in a house that forgives and softens.
Your best friend Rory lives in a house at the edge of town with a big brother who is on the football team. He struts down the school hallways with his football buddies in tow as only boys who do the hurting can. Whenever he walks by Rory, he smirks and licks his lips. She pretends not to see, but you see—his little lizard tongue darting, his eyes shifting, daring you to do something about it, daring you to drop low and knock him off his feet with furious fists, landing again, again, and again.
Your best friend’s name is Rory. She loves the sound of a furious rain. She has seventeen freckles, including one on her right eyelid. You count each one of them out loud, softer, softer, softly.
BIO: L Mari Harris’s stories have been chosen for the Wigleaf Top 50 and Best Microfiction. She lives in the Ozarks. Follow her on X @LMariHarris and read more of her work at lmariharris.wordpress.com.