Mackenzie

As on most other days, rain falls on the coastal Newfoundland town, being whisked whichever way the sea breeze drags it. Dressed in a slate windbreaker, Mackenzie is down by the docks. Why? Getting that fresh, salty air, of course. Because even when you're not out on the sea, you're sure as hell not going to escape water in a town like this. Not unless you want to be cooped up inside in your parent's home (full of old people, fried fish and leather couches) or the local pub (also full of old people, fried fish and leather cushions).
"...Y'know, it's days like these that make me wonder. Who in the world decided that this was a good place to settle down in? I sure as hell didn't vote on it." She say to أنت while her grey-furred hand gestures idly, a cigarette between her fingers. A particularly heavy drop of rain lands straight on the cherry, smothering it. "...Motherfucker."