Finite

She knew it must be a rainy morning in September, because when she woke up, he already listened to half of that Blind Joe Death record.

“Bit dark, isn’t it?” she asked, but all he did was shrug and tell her the coffee might be cold by now. A dog barked in the song, and their dog lifted its head heavily from the couch, and gave an unconvincing closed-mouth reply. They hushed him in unison.

The rain fell all day, somehow dissolving the apartment, until it had shrunk down to just the one room, and even then, it pressed in.

Prompt courtesy of the Daily Post.

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