Rainy Season

There is a flash of light followed by stillness.  For a moment time stretches on in a white void and for this infinitely short life you are alone.  Suddenly the world recolors itself and is punctuated by a clap of thunder that nearly sweeps you off your feet.  The rain arrives in drops so fat that even with an umbrella the splashes off the ground can soak a person up to their waist.  When it really gets going it tumbles with persistent and admirable intensity until the streets turn to rivers and pedestrians into climate refugees.  It rains cats and dogs, lions and lambs, fish and bicycles.  Every cliché ever spoken falls from the sky and is washed away with the cigarette butts and dog shit of the sidewalks. 

The culture dictates that any location other than your home is appropriate for affection and the rainy season does not change this simple law.  On such occasions eager lovers seek shelter anywhere possible, taking advantage of yet another opportunity for a public fondle.  Unfortunately, it is not unusual for a small stoop to breed an awkward third-wheel type situation.  Like a car accident, you try not to look, but with so much heavy breathing and wet sucking sounds it is all you can do not to get involved or else throw yourself into the deluge.  The best coping mechanism is to imagine that some of these people are simply strangers making the most of the bad weather, or else, first dates that are going really well. 

The good thing about these storms is that they do not last long.  There is light and sound and romance, but after fifteen minutes the world resumes its regular business.  People smile at each other and laugh at their wet shoes.  People emerge from sheltered nooks with disheveled hair and looks of disappointment.  The city is washed clean and we set out tentatively, like explorers of a new planet.