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Rain.
Rain is good.
I’m not talking about a summer rain in the city. In the summer the city stinks of sweat and garbage. That kind of light summer rain only makes it worse; the rain is like sweat, warm and sticky as it drips down your neck and forearms. It’s a rain that is too light to do any good. It doesn’t clean the air and make it more breathable. It doesn’t have that fresh and clean smell. It isn’t enough to wash blood from a sidewalk.
I think spring rain is the best; the kind of rain that falls under a grey sky all day and into the night. It does wonderful things to the city. It seeps into garden beds and in the days that follow, little bits of green and violet appear. It seeps deeply into the ground and soon the trees, that struggle so much to survive in their little holes in the sidewalk, begin to turn from grey and brown to be tinged with green along their upper branches. It’s the kind of rain that draws people together under umbrellas. I especially like to watch the young lovers, perhaps shy at first, pulling their bodies close, arms around each other’s waste, lost in each other’s eyes as the rain drums dryly and steadily above their heads. Spring rain is steady and strong. As it collects, it runs off the sidewalks taking with it the dust and filth and the city begins to sparkle and shine.
Late in this November night, the rain is different still. It is driven by the wind in cold gusts up the avenues. It sends the lovers, hand in hand, dodging under awnings to the beckoning warmth of a corner caffe. It leaves the streets deserted but for an occasional taxi prowling for a fare; anyone who is desperate enough to pay it in order to sit on a sticky back seat, avoiding the used condom or syringe on the floor, and endure the ride uptown and home. This rain is cold and stings the exposed skin of the face and hands leaving it red and raw. When it drips from your collar onto your necks it sends a chill through your whole body. But even this rain is good. It is constant and heavy; driven by the wind it is like bristles scratching at windows. It reaches into corners and alleyways. It pools and runs off into the gutters and carries away the traces of an early winter night.
The silenced pistol is warm in my gloved hand. I tuck it back under my overcoat and stand contemplating the body on the pavement. Who this man was, what he did or what he said and to whom is of no concern to me. All that I know is that tomorrow I will receive the usual envelope packed full of 50’s and 100’s in my anonymous mailbox.
The rain continues, mixing gradually with the blood from the body, and running off into the gutter. It cleanses the scene of its former violence and dances on the upturned face, running from the blank eyes like tears.
I think I will take a vacation; somewhere tropical. I’ve heard that in tropical countries it rains every afternoon. I think I would like that. After the heat and humidity of the day, to stand and watch the clouds gather and the wind rise. To feel the first drops of warm rain fall on my face and know that a good rain foreshadows the cooler and refreshing air of the evening. To know that the rain is good. |
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Posted by badlydrawnstickman on 2007-12-01 10:33:04 | Rating: | Views: 91
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Whoa! Nice entry!
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Posted by CavedogRob
on 2007-12-01 18:48:26
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Didn't realize what a talented writer you are.
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Posted by 80sChick1982
on 2007-12-03 21:21:17
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that was awesome. I loved it. I had no idea where it was going, loved the ending. Very intriguing. Impressed once again. :)
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Posted by brokenangel
on 2007-12-03 23:10:53
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You can make anything extraordinary with your writing.
Do you realize that?
I am sick of rain...I lived in Oregon way too long.
Here and now....you made all of those rainy nights simply beautiful.
I want to go HOME...I miss the rain now.
I am being dramatic...sorry.
Peace..RainMan.
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Posted by DifficultSoul
on 2007-12-12 01:24:41
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i like a twist!
brilliant x
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Posted by missmarie
on 2007-12-29 09:58:32
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