If you were to somehow get close enough you’d see your face in the water droplet resting against the shiny black backdrop. A perfectly polished shoe.

Tens. Perhaps in the low hundreds of droplets formed slowly, growing round in the whispy rain.

Glass beads, slowly filling, until the surface tension breaks, causing them to roll in a thin glazed film down the patent black surface of a perfectly polished shoe.

Like a screen reflecting the moonlit night back at itself. The liquid dreams of a starry sky.

A single strand of fur falls and pierces a few droplets. Heavy enough to break the tension, but as it rests in a transparent bead, it seems untouched. Perhaps untouchable.

By its nature nothing sticks. Or at least water runs off effortlessly. Natural wax, doing the same job as the wax which protects a perfectly polished shoe.