the weather report

the weather report was sweating through its envelope on the break room table. i brought it from home because nobody here believes me about the weather back home, and the paper had made a dark ring under the word tomorrow. dolores said paper does not sweat, then touched the corner and put her finger in the air like she had caught it lying.

i counted sixty-four drops before the ring stopped moving. the report said clear skies, which was generous for a place where the rain comes sideways and the sun sets with a cough. dolores told me my town was not on the company map. i told her the map had been printed by people who had not been there, and she asked whether that was why the report smelled like toast.

i took the envelope to the window. the glass was dry. the ceiling was dry. the report kept getting wetter in my hand, so i held it over the toaster vent until the ink ran together. the word tomorrow became a black stripe, and the black stripe looked more honest than the forecast.

dolores came back with a mop and said, "you can't file weather as a leak."

i said she could try filing it as a lie.

she put the report in the trash, where it made a small wet sound. i took it back because the trash was already full of things that had been believed once, and i have standards. the report is dry now, but home is still under weather and nobody here has the right shoes.