Bleeding Kansas

Ashley had lived in Kansas long enough to know that it did not bleed. Kansas was as dry and bleached out as her bottle-blonde hair. Ashley learned to move in cycles, like the wind; slow, boring cycles.
Kansas is not a place for youth.
In Kansas, people speak in generalizations.
"It's a nice year." Somebody says.
"Pretty much." Another replies.
"It's a nice day out." Ashley's mother comments from across the table. The chick-yellow eggs on Ashley's plate are lifeless. Ashley slides them to the other side of the plate, hoping the change in location might brighten her outlook. On the left side of the plate, the eggs take on a grayness. It's worse than ever.
"Weatherman said it might rain." Her mother comments absentmindedly, reading the paper. Ashley is crushed.
Just the same, she thinks.
But as the morning rolls on and the clouds come in, Ashley begins to think that a little rain would be a nice change for a bit. It's been a while, and the fractures that run through and break into every inch or so of arid topsoil gasp for water. Even dark, rich soil has grown pale and gray in wanting.
Kansas doesn't bleed, at least not anymore, so yes, it would be a nice thing, Ashley decides, if it rained for just a bit, or maybe for a while.
Ashley's mother is anxious behind her newspaper-gray eyes. She has had an affair with the postmaster for the past year and a half. The rain is their signal to one another, to meet in the parking lot behind an abandoned Stop N Shop. Ashley's mother thinks it her one stroke of genius. Ashley's mother never gave thought to the immorality of it all. She does him with her wedding ring on. Most adults carry certain reckless habits on from childhood; drinking, drugs, saturday morning cartoons. Ashley's mother fucks the postman. It makes her feel young.
Ashley might know about her mother's affair, but it is of no importance in the moment. Not to Ashley's mother. Her minivan pulls out of the driveway, leaving Ashley with her eggs.
Ashley takes her plate to the sink, scraping her eggs into the drain. The disposal roars for one glorious moment, choking down the remainders of her breakfast. She watches out the kitchen window, trasfixed, the gray road stretching out into forever. Her mother's minivan moves, a speck in the distance. Light and heat, and thunder claps far away, and Ashley swears she can see the very first drop of rain as it falls, rupturing the Earth, splitting ancient skin. She can see Kansas' scars redden with new blood.