>There’s a spot on Sadie’s balcony where the fallen raindrops form a line between wet and dry, a boundary line where the roof has stopped the rain from falling. At what point, she wonders, do they change from raindrops to just water lying on the tiles? She gets up from the floor and fetches the mop from the corner of the laundry. She mops up the rain, the water, the puddle—whatever—and squeezes it out over the edge of the balcony, watching the liquid air-dance the two storeys to the ground. It hits with a pleasing sound—the wet snap and watery fizz like a cutlery drawer closing. The water leaves a dark explosion on the concrete. The raindrops, now, are something else.


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