I love the rain. I love how it seems to make everything feel… better. Smoother, somehow. Most people just enjoy the idea of rain. They like the sound it makes on the windowpane, or the cathartic feeling it gives. But it seems few actually enjoy the rain itself.
But I’m different. I don’t love it just because I find it relaxing—which, don’t get me wrong, I do. But I’m not the type to absently daydream out of a window or bury myself in some book when the rain falls. No, I love to be in the rain. I love to be in the kind of rain that’s so suffocating you can’t see the woman sneak up behind you as you foolishly run for shelter. I love the rain that screams so loudly nobody hears yours as I smother you with a rag with a strange scent. I love the rain so thick nobody notices me drag you into the trunk of my car. And in a monsoon, nobody sure as hell wants to go out to the swamp where you’ll rot for eternity.
It hasn’t rained in a while, but there’s supposed to be a thunderstorm tonight. And I can feel the first droplets start to fall.