On Rain

When I get off the train there is a crowd. A dozen people stand beneath the awning outside the subway entrance, watching the road and waiting for the storm to pass. The rain falls in silver sheets and I've got no umbrella, but I'm glad. On Monday I went running in the park and the humidity hung on me, every breath a wheeze, but the grass had just been cut and the air was sweet and the trees heavy with the weight of a million cicadas, buzzing like maracas in every corner. Today, I'd told myself, I would go again. But the weather was adverse and my plans were foiled; I could go home to read and write and decompress after a long, gray day, curled on my gold chair with the lights low and the raindrops falling hard on the trees in the courtyard, splashing like a downpour in a real forest, and not just a concrete lot full of overgrown poison sumac.

I push through the crowd because I'll not waste a moment, not wait for the calm; I tiptoe over the brown puddles at the curb and I stay close to the brick face of the buildings, hiding in their shadows. I'm dressed like a cupcake, in a pink cotton dress with blue and yellow flowers, a pale blue cardigan and silver sandals. The dress was a hand-me-down in a size large and the tailor took it in every way he could manage, but the bust still hangs comically loose, saving itself for someone more bosomy than I know how to be. My dress is spattered and my lavender eyeliner runs. A cupcake with melted frosting.

I pass beside the fruit stand and a man speaks to me rapidly in Spanish. I eye the skinny asparagus bundled with purple bands, and breathe in the smell of strawberries that carries in the wet air. The sidewalks are empty and there is no crowd to push through at the corner. I cross again past the pizza place, where the owner always says hello and I retaliate by pretending not to see him, as though it would be such a burden to make a friend, and past the all-night barbershop where my favorite barber pretends not to see me. This corner is usually busy. Yesterday I saw someone get arrested here. But today the block is empty, the usual suspects all running for cover.

The block where I live is always lined with cars, a risk no matter how you slice it because people smash the windows. Today the victim is a shiny blue bug, the glove compartment open and the driver's seat full of broken glass and rainwater. I feel bad for whoever has to deal with this tomorrow morning. My front door key doesn't usually work on the first try, but I make it happen. There's no mail to look over and the light is out in the entryway. But the rain splashes on the leaves and the air cools, dust settles. The gold chair beckons.