The umbrella that was not mine
Rain hammered the covered walkway outside the public library. I grabbed a black umbrella from the stand — ours, I thought — and ran for the minibus. At the door, a girl my age said, “That’s my tape on the handle.” A strip of faded washi, cats wearing raincoats. I had never seen it. My ears went hot. I held the umbrella out with both hands, like a confession. She did not snatch it. She tilted it so we both fitted, and we walked to the stop without discussing justice. On the minibus I stared at my wet sleeves and understood how easily a person can be sure and wrong at the same time. The next Saturday I bought a cheap yellow umbrella that nobody else would want. I still look for cats on other people’s handles.