Rain breeds loneliness. In the case of the single New York woman, there is nothing worse than coming home damp to a musty apartment. Maybe coming home with food poisoning. Maybe.
Warm rain I can handle. I put down my umbrella and let the rain soak down my hairline and drip mascara into my eyes. Others give off this look of pity, envy, and irritation. How dare I enjoy the rain? Easily, and I saunter around in my romantic mess with my raccoon eyes, drunk on the weather.
I can't handle cold, pulsing rain. I can't handle the emptiness of my apartment, or decipher where exactly the off-putting smell is coming from within it. Under the sink. Under the floorboards.
I digress.
This is the rain that makes me yearn. It is sinking rain. It is rain to light up a joint under the covers, burning down the hours until the clouds slowly part.
1 comment:
I love the atmosphere of this one. It's positively cinematic, right up until the last sentence; at that point, you kind of let the reader down a bit. It almost seems like you've either given up the piece, or you're second guessing yourself (being self-conscious). If you don't mind my saying so, I think it deserves a better last line than "Alas, I have no pot".
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