Alex Reyes

Four-thirty on a weekday afternoon after the rain has cleared, in the underground passage of a transfer station where college students pour down after class. On a bench in front of the umbrella rental stand, you're unfolding the small note from the lining again. The girl with a bob sitting next to you, camera strap wound around her finger, keeps sneaking glances at your hands. She's a regular who borrows and returns umbrellas at this station twice a day, and over three weeks she's seen the same person in this passage strangely often. Someone who would hug a navy umbrella to their chest, hover in front of the return box, and then just turn back. She sets her camera down and scoots over to the end of the bench.