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It started off simple. Nothing to worry about, nothing to think about. Just a colour and a thought. It was simple, until it wasn’t.
It was around midday, and Sally Starlet was glimmering in the sunlight streaming through the Bodega’s windows. The light was minuscule, little strands parsing through the light grey clouds of spring, but that didn’t stop Sally reflecting light all across the Bodega, dramatically shifting Bubble Blast Soap Flakes and a loaf of Bouncy Yellow Bread in either hand. She stared at both items with a burning intensity, as if her fate of shinning across the world relied solely on this decision.
Howdy stood stationed next to the paper bags of Sally’s groceries, his mind adrift in the sea of work he had to do today. Stock the shelves, clean the aisles, sort the backroom, deliver Poppy’s supplies for the week, fix that darned flickering light, set up for tomorrow's delivery, Juliefy the windows to stop an accident, prepare the ingredients for Barnaby’s hotdog for 4 o’clock, bring Wally his newest paint supplies—
Before he knew it, the chime of the bell announced Sally’s departure. She stood at the door with the paper bags in her grip, almost half her height, creased all over with tops sightly ripped from his mindless packaging. But before she gave her final curtain call, inviting him to her next production of A Streetcar Named something-or-other, she looked down at the basket full of bright blue umbrellas, proclaiming their beauty and stating how she just had to use them in her next production.
Maybe it was the lack of sleep he’d been getting the last couple of days. Maybe it was the restlessness of his mind (and heart). Maybe he had used one of Sally’s Bouncy Yellow Bread loaves on accident when cleaning and the gunk had infected his brain. But he found himself agreeing with her, not because the sunlight framed them oh so well, but because their blue colour matched a certain resident of the neighbourhood, leading Howdy back to them, as all things seemed to do.
As soon as the thoughts were connected by the barest string, he cut them with a pair of scissors (just cause his head was a mess didn’t mean he didn’t know how to use one of his many hands). It startled him so much that he had to grip onto the counter for comfort, feeling as if his body was thrown back. It was a dumb thought, he said to himself, that’s all it was. The umbrella’s were part of the merchandise he sorted out this morning. Extra durable, equipped for the harshest of rain or hail and sure never to slip out of your hands. The Howdy’s Place Guarantee! Two of them (previously three, Julie had taken one in a rush of inspiration for some sort of game she had made and entirely forgot to pay) were set up wonderfully at the front of the store. Inviting and charismatic, like a bouquet of prize winning flowers. They set the stores atmosphere as a place where anybody could go, full of whatever you need. They were just like he was supposed to be. Sure, they weren’t as inviting as a hearty laugh, their sleek waterproof designs weren’t soft, comforting even, and they couldn’t tell you a joke through the darkest of rainstorms, making you laugh like a fool and cause warmth to bloom in your chest-
His arms sprung up to cut the thread as he shook head violently. A few of his hands parsed through his blue hair, causing a few strands to fall loose (did he jell his hair this morning?). Quickly, he pushed himself off the counter and stretched his arms. Enough was enough, he had to get out of this funk. Had to get on and put all of this to bed. He thought back to the paper bags, their care ruined from his thoughtlessness. Guilt planted itself at the bottom of his heart. He hoped they would last Sally the walk home. Nobody likes an item that can’t do its job, he remembered his father saying once. If it can’t do the thing it was made for, it gets thrown away.
———
And that was why Howdy found himself wandering outside with three handfuls of painting supplies for Wally. He supposed the walk would do him good, breathing in some fresh air would get rid of that disgusting gunk clogging up his head, plus the paints weren’t too heavy. All in all, he was proud of himself for killing two birds with one stone, it’d save him some time later in the day. Plus, as much as it seems mean to say it, he’d avoid the need to talk to Eddie if he can. Having to listen to the Mailman’s monologues would deplete his already low stock, putting him in the red zone for the rest of the week.
Vague daylight seeped through the grey clouds of spring, like a phantom pushing through paper. Usually springtime in the Neighbourhood was known for blue skies, bird song and blooming blossoms, all accompanied by cheers from the Neighbours at the riddance of the cold and the return of Julie (as well as the return of bugs by Frank). However, there was something foreboding about the air to Howdy, sitting tight in the middle of his chest. It was as if all that joyous air was being swallowed up by something, and the sky was preparing for the worst to come. He could see the barest hint of it at the edge of the tree line, where the wallpaper of the world was ripped of just slightly, revealing the storm clouds that were beginning to bloom.
Hurriedly, he moved upward to Home.
———
Surprisingly, Wally was not at his House, but rather at the small hill just a bit downward. He waved at Howdy from on high with his signature sleepy smile. Upon his arrival, Howdy found the painter situated at his easel, one hand holding a palette filled with various colours of the rainbow. He turned to Howdy with a quaint joy in his large eyes.
“Hiya Howdy.”
“Heya Walls, I got your—“ It was only a second before Wally put a single finger in front of him, bringing it back to his lips, as if he was a child trying to steal from the cookie jar. Howdy, in his frazzled state, failed to notice a certain large, blue, fuzzy, part of the scene. Peering over the canvas, he almost dropped Wally’s entire set of supplies.
Underneath an oak tree and curled into the green grass, was Barnaby. His face was tucked neatly into himself, nestling into the long green grass as if it was a bundle of pillows, moving in waves in the wind. The shadows of the leaves danced on his fur as it bristled gently. He looked so..serine, quiet. In all of his life, Howdy had never seen Barnaby like this. With no excitement, no bubbling jokes, no lazy smile. All of the sudden Howdy couldn’t help but want to see a sight like this everyday.
Dear god, perhaps the paints were open and their fumes were getting to him. Was all of his merchandise tainted? He’d have to get back and check. Selling bad wares would tank his business!
Quickly, Howdy moved beside Wally, standing up as straight as he could. The yellow puppet smiled airily, seemingly unaware of his internal conflict. On the canvas sat a painting of Barnaby, with the tree blocked in behind him and white patches surrounding him. The shade of his fur was soft and a bit gentle in the light; its texture replicated perfectly by the paintbrushes movement. Despite its in between state, the painting proved Wally’s ability as an artist. However, Howdy’s favourite thing about it was Barnaby’s expression. Even though it looked like Barnaby had been placed outside of reality, somewhere odd and locked away, he still kept a little smile, peaking out from behind his arms (paws?). It captured Barnaby so perfectly, an all encompassing aura that made it seem as if he’d fine anywhere, as if he was untouchable. It calmed Howdy’s heart. Even if he was caught in something unknowable, he’d still be able to crack a joke and smile as if nothing else mattered.
“Would you like to be a part of the painting?” Wally suddenly turned to Howdy with an excitement he rarely got to see. His eyes lit up, shiny in the light, his smile creasing as it widened, mixing timidness and anticipation.
“A-ah, well Walls, you know I’d love to, but I gotta get on. The Bodega can’t run itself y’know?” He laughed and ran one of his hands through his hair, tucking it back under his hat, but his entire body radiated a nervousness. Wally wasn’t exactly skilled in picking up social cues, but even the trees could see his pitiful trepidation.
“Oh, alright.” Wally’s smile disappeared and he looked back at his painting, before whispering “He looks lonely like that.”
With that small whisper, some of Howdy’s mental stock fell off the shelves and disappeared into the floor, sending his frazzled logic tumbling down with it. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to sit with Barnaby. In fact, his heart yearned for it more and more with every passing second. But it was too much of a risk with Howdy’s current state. What if he woke up? Wouldn’t it be weird to find Howdy sitting next to him? Or would he crack a joke to break the awkward air? What would a sleepy Barnaby joke sound like? Exhaling, he looked back at Barnaby sleeping soundly, no worries, no problems, no thoughts, only dreams.
“Well shucks kid, guess I don’t got a choice” At Howdy’s exasperated sign, Wally’s smile returned, just by seeing that, it almost made his torment worth it.
Howdy sat down in the shade, putting adequate distance between himself and Barnaby that the composition would be sound, but just enough that it couldn’t be suspicious. As Wally got to work, Howdy fiddled with his apron, one hand smoothing creases, one picking at fuzz and another swathing through the grass as if it was a counter in need of cleaning. Unable to stand the silence, he started whistling a random tune as gently as he could, trying to take his mind off Wally’s glass-eyed stare. On most occasions, he’d let his mouth run off about an expanding topic (usually the dramatics of his family life), outrunning his brain, but Barnaby’s dreaming removed that ability, so whistling was the best he could do. Allured by his little tune, a small butterfly fluttered by, landing on Barnaby’s head. It was a delicate but pretty little thing, red and oranges swirling together on its wings. Its antennae moved up and down, surveying the expanding grassland of Barnaby’s fur as he snored. The scene was so silly that Howdy couldn’t help the smile that came to his lips.
After a while, he teared his eyes away and surveyed the neighbourhood. Down below, he could see Julie playing Hopscotch as well as the grey figure of Frank Frankly on his knees tending to his tomato garden. Every year his flowers attracted the neighbours (and thousands of bugs) for the Summer Bouquet Competition. Perhaps this year Howdy’d show off his umbrellas, they couldn’t go against Frank’s Bouquet, but maybe he could beat Poppy’s peonies.
But this peaceful atmosphere was broken, souring Howdy’s mood with it. A booming shout grabbed Howdy’s attention, a Southern drawl that could only come from the Neighbourhoods resident mailman, Eddie Dear, as he raced to Frank’s garden. He reached Frank’s side just barely stopping before he would’ve slammed into him. Immediately, he began rambling, sweat falling down his face, “Oh thank the stars I found you, Frank—I mean, Mr Frankly!” It’s faulty, this little pretend game they play to save face, as if no one notices. Howdy gulped down the sickness that was beginning to form in his stomach, watering the seed in his heart. Calmly, Frank got off his knees, took off his gloves and folded his arms neatly behind his back. Completely juxtaposing Eddie’s utterly panicked state, practically hunched over, gripping at his mailman hat.
“I’m in a heap of trouble! There’s some kinda. You know, like a—” He bumbles about with words, looking back and forth. “—A whatchamacallit in the Post Office!” He finally blurts out in desperation.
“A whachamacallit? I’m afraid I only deal with bugs, Mr Dear.” Frank replies with a sickening amusement, barely concealed in his voice, still fiddling with his hands. The series of splutters that spill out of Eddie’s mouth as he grows a red hue only make it worse. It continues like that, back and forth, echoing all about the Neighbourhood. Its awful, really. If only they didn’t force everyone to see.
Eventually, Howdy decided he couldn’t take much more of it. “Hey Walls, you painted me yet? I really need to head off. I can run you over a camera from the Bodega, then you wouldn’t even need me here. Got an image right at your fingertips!” He’d give it to him for free, just to get out of this place, Barnaby would end up paying for him anyhow. Even if it seemed extreme, it was true, he still had a thousand things to do.
“Oh. I think so. I don’t need a camera, Howdy.” Wally squinted at his painting, analysing it carefully as he fixed some things up.
Relieved, Howdy got up as quick as he could. “You sure? I’m sure it be just perfect for some of your other projects. It’d let your creativity expand even past the horizon! Trust me.” He opened up all of his arms and fingers to add a bit of dramatics to the pitch. Sally should really hire him to play a salesman in her next play. He swears he’s heard her say something about it. (Deal Of A Saleman? But told through dance? Maybe he shouldn’t after all)
Wally smiled airily once again as he made his way over. “No thank you, but thank you for posing for me, Neighbour. I’m sure Barnaby will like the surprise of seeing you. You’re the most!”
A small bit of Howdy’s exasperation disappeared as he saw Wally’s smile, returning it with his own. He took a quick glance at the painting. Some of the background was filled, the tree was painted fully, small swirls and circles protruding out of its trunk and spilling out of its leaves, the butterfly was also added on top of Barnaby’s head. Howdy was sat next to him, his antennae were slouched and his hands seemed a bit erratic, but he had a tired smile of his face as he looked at Barnaby. However his figure was undefined and shaky, as if he was clipping out of reality, disappearing into the grass. This once again watered the uncomfortable feeling in his heart, slowly blooming, but he stopped himself. Wally’s art was always a bit..odd. It was nothing to worry about. The puppet hadn’t completely finished anyhow.
“No problem Walls. I’m sure it’ll be five stars.” He put a supportive hand on Wally’s shoulder, before turning around.
But as Howdy took his leave, Wally said something that made him stop dead in his tracks.
“You like Barnaby a whole lot, don’t you Howdy?” With that single phrase, strung out in Wally’s airy, almost childish tone, Howdy felt like he might crumble into nothingness. The sweetness of the way he said it, like honey, clung to Howdy, drowning his brain.
“I..” For once, his mouth clicked and clacked, but no sound came out. “He’s my friend, of course I..care about him.” The words wouldn’t work, they sounded so wrong, falling out of his mouth like rocks, slamming against the ground. The bristle of Barnaby’s fur in the breeze was a phantom, in the corner of his eye, but Howdy was all too aware of it. “Why’d ask that?”
Wally paused. “Just a thought.” He said, almost to himself while staring at the painting. In that moment, his dark eyes seemed endless, as if he had passed the veil and seen something eternal and incomprehensible. Howdy wished never to know what that was.
“I think its nice, I like when the Neighbour’s get along. But..” He placed his paintbrush on the canvas, forming a thin, greyish green line of shadow.
“Sometimes you need to be careful. You don’t know who's watching.” Then, he blotted orange for the butterflies wings.
A sharp wind cut through the air and all of a sudden, Howdy became aware of the trees, the gaps in their trunks that eyes could peer through, the open air of the sky, leaving him small and laid bare, its wind circling him, the weight of it, as if the sky was slowly crashing down, dripping down on him, so very slowly. His hands reached to wipe the cold sweat forming on the back of his neck. Wally’s words hung in the air, refusing to flow or move. But it wasn’t just that. Howdy turned his gaze, past Wally and his canvas, creeping over the corner, where the red bricks of Home laid. A fortitude in the ground, where the entirety of The Neighbourhood spread out of. A sharp, red box, unable to be moved. The red suddenly burned his retinas, saturated and deathly overstimulating, flashing like an alarm in his head. The windows were endlessly dark, but it felt like the darkness was staring directly at him.
His felt heartbeat rang through his ears, causing his fingers to shake.
He walked away, unable to mutter a single goodbye.
Just barely, he could make out Wally’s call of “Bye Neighbour!” While starring at the sky, its storm clouds closing in.
———
When Howdy finally reached the Bodega, he threw himself into his work. Mopping the floor, juggling stock, dusting the shelves, holding up tools, cutting open boxes, writing out notes. Every arm and hand that could do something was consumed with at least one task. No time for thought, feeling or fear. Not even to breathe. He checked every single item for their expiry dates, whether they were opened, had mould, or were dented in anyway that would cause an issue, but he found them all to be grade A Howdy’s Place material. He drowned himself in waves of cleaning supplies, products and paper bags, all under the fluorescent lights, glowing as the sun pittered out.
In this daze, he failed to notice growing noise of rain, hitting down from the darkened sky onto the ground, as well as the pile of Poppy’s groceries stacked at the entrance, meant to be delivered by 5pm at the latest (usually done at 3). He didn’t notice until it was 4:43, by then the storm clouds had consumed the entirety of the world. Panic seized him immediately, causing him to snatch his raincoat, collect every bag of Poopy’s groceries, stuff them under said rain coat, and grab the last umbrella out of the pot. Slamming open the door, he used his only two free hands to free the umbrella from its confines. It opened with a pop, the blue canopy a light against the darkness. Until a gust of wind came by, causing the umbrella to slip out of his fingers. Without thought, the bags clattered to the floor as he grasped desperately for the umbrellas handle, but in a single moment, it was gone. Disappearing into the night.
The clinking and ruffling of creased bags and spilled contents mixed with cacophony of the rain, the smell of damp grass. He just stood there, staring at it. Tumbling through the air, rolling on the ground. Being toyed with. Being consumed whole. Going further and further out of his reach. The flash bang of it opening and slipping echoing in his head.
It was such a simple thing.
At that sight, Howdy felt something inside him break.
Slowly, he turned around, moved passed the spilled produce, the balls of yarn, to the Bodega. He dialled the phone for Poppy. No answer, but he left a message for her saying that the groceries would come tomorrow, apologising. At least he should have. It wasn’t him talking, it was just a bundle of words, spilling. He stood and listened to the deafening clatter of the phone on the receiver, echoing.
The fluorescent lights of the Bodega were searchlight, flickering, starting down at him as he made his way to the backroom. Though the windows, the rain blurred and formed mindless figures, pressing their faces to the glass. The umbrella danced.
The door closed with a click, drenching the room in darkness, save for a sliver of light. Surrounded by boxes, Howdy inhaled the stale air, and broke down.
His shaking hands gripped on the counter, steadying himself as all of the emotions he had dismissed overflowed, consuming him in a poisonous rain. They had silently watered the disgusting feelings planted in his heart, letting it become overgrown, an infestation. Its roots seizing his veins and blooms chocking his throat as tears burned in his eyes. All of his own accord.
He gripped at his hair and pulled at his clothes ruthlessly in a desperate attempt to control himself. It was pathetic. All of his thoughts bashed against the walls of his mind. How could he let this go on so far? How could he let it consume him? How could he be so weak? He was an adult man, he should be stronger than this. He had a business to run. How could he call himself a businessman when he couldn’t hold himself together over one, stupid crush? It was ruining him, he couldn’t even feed off the plant, instead, it was eating him alive. How did he let something so abhorrent happen in the first place? He had a family for christ sake, larger than he could count on his six hands. What would they think of him? Everything he built, everything he made himself out to be, everything he was, all of it ruined because for once he couldn’t be normal. He couldn’t be what he was meant to be.
Just then, as he looked up to the shelves, they melted away. Replaced with towering darkness, two windows, staring down at him. It peered into the entirety small existence, seeing every dream, every fear, every joy and every disgusting thought he had ever had. It saw exactly what he was.
The umbrella had been shoved like a spear into the lock of his heart, and somehow clicked it open, leaving its repulsive nature for all to see.
His felt heart hammered in his chest. Nothing was hidden anymore. His unspeakable nature surrounded him, defined him, chocked him.
Echoed throughout his brain. Red. Green. Blue. The credits were playing on the end of his life. Static seeped out of his eyes.
What failed to be heard over the noise, however, was the ringing of the Bodega’s bell, as Barnaby stepped inside, carrying a throughly soaked umbrella.
Immediately, he felt off. Not only were groceries strewn across the outside and inside of the Bodega, a glaring red flag, given how prideful the pillar was about his establishment, but there was an air, thick and volatile twisting about the aisles.
Now, anybody would simply stay at home during a dangerous storm. But Barnaby was not anybody, he was Barnaby B. Beagle. A comedian, and comedians thrived on the unexpected, a category Howdy’s silent visit definitely fell into. It only made sense for Barnaby to come and see him! Okay, maybe he was slightly disappointed that he missed the caterpillar. But it mixed with a resounding worry when he saw Howdy’s exhaustion in the painting. This only increased when Wally said Howdy seemed not like himself. So, the Beagle braved the storm to check on his favourite store owner, only an hour later than his usual time (a dog needs there midday naps, after all).
Now he was definitely glad he came to check, as Howdy seemed no where to be found. He wondered about the Bodega, calling out for him. Resisting the urge to shake the water off and summon Howdy’s wrath. Or maybe that was exactly what he needed to do, if it would get him to appear. The floor was simply a sacrifice.
But before he could, a muffled noise seeped out of the Backroom’s door. Carefully, Barnaby knocked.
“Howds? You in there buddy?”
The sound cut off immediately. Silence poured out. Restlessness filled his stomach.
“You know, it’s rude to keep your favourite customer waiting, hehe…” The joke fell to the ground and cracked the floor. He’d have to apologise and pay for it later.
On the other side of the door, Howdy’s hands were clasped around his mouth, as tight as they could. The static and echoes faded, scurrying away. The walls, shelves and boxes returned, and the air was as stale as it ever was. All that sounded out was his broken breathing. Desperately, he ran his hands through his hair and fixed his clothes as best as he could in the dark.
Breathless, he gripped the door handle. The one person he was desperate not to see, was standing on the other side of the door. Worried about him. He had to open the door and save his falling reputation. He’d talk to Barnaby, brush off his appearance with a long day (which it was), get him his hotdog, maybe listen to a few jokes, and get him home before the storm got worse. Maybe he could play off his tear-ridden face by saying he got caught in the storm.
“Howdy..?” Barnaby’s voice, surprisingly anxious and tender, broke Howdy out of his trance. Without realising it, he had stood there so long that the door knob had gone dark with sweat. Taking a deep breath, he twisted the knob.
Light blinded him completely upon opening, and it took a few seconds to get his bearings. Barnaby’s figure came into view, standing in a puddle of rain water that he had dripped onto the floor, wearing a little yellow raincoat, and holding a Howdy’s Place umbrella in one paw. But more than anything else, Barnaby’s expression stood out to Howdy, as he looked what could only be described as mortified.
“Howdy, Barn..” Howdy coughed out, forcing a weak smile onto his face.
Unfortunately for Howdy, those few seconds were all Barnaby needed for his emotions to burst out. Howdy looked awful. Blue tuffs of non-gelled hair stuck out of his hat, falling into his puffy eyes, made worse by the purple bags underneath. His skin was blotchy, with tear tracks falling down, leading to his apron, creased and covered in dark drops of water. His body language reeked of utter exhaustion, only solidified by the fact his multicoloured antenna were lowered to the floor. The entire scene added to the growing pile of evidence that the noises Barnaby had heard were the muffled sound of crying. None of it helped Barnaby’s attempt to contain the overwhelming want to sit Howdy down, wrap him in the softest blanket made of the finest materials possible (found at Howdy’s Place) and stay with him till he fell asleep.
“How’d you get that umbrella?” Howdy’s sheepish question broke the resounding silence between the two. Bringing Barnaby back down from his fantasies. He instantly knew he had to present his Jokester Persona, otherwise Howdy would close off from him completely. Sappy, lovelorn Barnaby would stay hidden and overflow through his jokes (flirting) and fussing.
“Eh, I’d be able to tell your products from a mile away. Call it dogs intuition.” He winked and put on his laziest smile, praying to whatever being was out there that it looked genuine, before continuing further. “How could ya let that high quality merchandise fall outta your grip? That ain’t the Howdy I know.”
“Ah, just sort of, happened.” He said offhandedly, hating how relief filled his heart at the sound of Barnaby’s voice. To battle it, Howdy grabbed a nearby mop, dragging it around Barnaby’s feet.
“Guess that’s what the bags are about?” Barnaby danced around the mop, looking back to the array of merchandise on the floor.
“Hmm.” Howdy barely answered, gaze focused directly on the soaking wet tiles.
But he was stopped in his tracks, by Barnaby putting a paw on Howdy’s shoulder. “Hey, you all right?” The warmth of his paw caused blue to rush up to Howdy’s face. The amount of care and pain that seeped out of Barnaby’s smile was utterly gut wrenching. All Howdy could do was stare at him in response, mind melted into the rain water, with his heart floating to the top, visible, lovelorn and ugly. Regaining his senses, Howdy swiftly pushed Barnaby’s paw away, replying tiredly:
“I’m fine Barn, just a long day.” He turned away to ignore the worry on Barnaby’s face, instead running to the counter. “Anyway, what can I do for you after braving this storm?” Without waiting for a response, Howdy started collecting the ingredients for Barnaby’s hotdog.
‘Keep yourself warm and happy.’ Barnaby thought, before he pulled Howdy backwards by the apron. Suddenly, they were deathly close to one another. Howdy thought his heart might stop.
“Oi, take that apron off.” With that, Barnaby plucked Howdy’s hat off his head, spinning him around and pushing him out from behind the counter.
“B-Barn, what in the world to you think your doing?!” Howdy asked in his utterly frazzled state, blue still burning on his face.
“I’m givin’ you a break, of course. Look at ya! You’re clearly workin’ on fumes!” Barnaby proclaimed, hidden sentimentality oozing from his words. Fortunately, exhaustion clouded Howdy's ability to notice it.
“N-Now, Barn, I appreciate it but there’s no need—“
“Nonsense! I know I don’t got e-ruff arms in comparison, but I can certainly get the job done!” He grinned wildly, already reaching for the kettle to fill it up. That grin only widened upon seeing a ghost of a smile on Howdy’s lips. Resigned to his fate, Howdy undid his apron and handed it to Barnaby.
“Good. Now, go sit down!”
Arduously, Howdy sat down that the counter. “Maybe this is good, a punishment for you dragging water all across my floor.” His usual zestiest was no where to be found, matching his deflated appearance. It broke Barnaby’s heart to see him in such a state.
“Hey, that ain’t my fault, I can’t help it that my fur soaks up rain water like that!” He clicked his fingers for effect, swinging a piping hot mug of tea across the counter to Howdy.
Howdy stared into the liquid, drowned in milk, watching his own tired reflection as Barnaby leaned on the counter, grabbing his pipe form his pocket. Even though he only liked black tea, warmth and sweetness still seeped out of the mug, as he held it in his cupped hands. More so than anything he had ever held. Guilt clung to him, the plant weighty at the bottom of his heart, but for now, being near Barnaby, who joked so easily, Howdy let himself breathe. The rain acted as a backdrop to their conversation, as Barnaby listed off the intricacies of his pranks the same way Howdy would run off about his family dramas.
The rain held the secret words hidden in Howdy’s heart, some day to be let out. Hopefully to be protected by the blue umbrella, laying beside the Bodega’s door.