rain

Usually Robert is mad on rain. Well, he's mad on anything, but on rain in a more specific way. He likes to dress as a girl. He often wrote about that. He's not what one would call a writer. Being asked if he was, in that shop where he once bought a huge amount of ribbon, he would have said he didn't know. The shopkeeper didn't ask though. Or he would have said yes. Yes I write. But some seconds later he would add an indifferent remark: postcards. Nothing to feel uncomfortable. He had never been abroad though but that didn't matter too much. The shopkeeper didn't ask. He even didn't take notice of the ribbon, or did he. Such an enormous amount of ribbon could have been of pleasure to anyone selling it. How many postcards, sir, can one possibly write, using a typewriter. Pointing a gun the shopkeeper maybe even wouldn't have noticed any difference. But it rained, as it always did, and Robert hadn't the habbit to wear a gun. As it so often does, Robert said to the pavement. He speeded across the street, nothing worth to be mentioned happened. Home he couldn't wait to change clothing. Wearing some clever nightdress he went into the garden, smoking a cigarette. Rain poured down. He went indoors, took the notebook, went to the garden again, sat down at the garden table.