Where I should be

I love rain, and sometimes I think it loves me back.

I think this story is a product of living in two of the rainest countries all my life. England and the Netherlands. Denmark beware. Rain and wind are too constants, and eventually, they take on a personality of their own. If I ever spend a prolonged period in Morocco or Finland, I'll probably start talking about the relentless sun or the soft snow. I wonder what piece of nature has taken on a personality for you? Or am I alone on this?

I love rain, and sometimes I think it loves me back. It’s a soft hand stroking my hair, whispering hopeful words into my ear. 

“Everything will be alright,” it says, drumming on my window. 

But I haven’t always loved the rain. Like most people, I complained when it started to pour on summer holidays, spoiling sandy beaches. When I was younger, I’d shed a tear at a thrashing storm, washing away the chalk drawings colouring the pavement. At university, we’d all groan, waiting in line, slowly drenching our freshly ironed outfits. Rain is, at best, a necessity. We put up with it because we have to.

This time of the year it’s here more than it isn’t. Sometimes, it sticks around for a week or two, holding us hostage until we’re willing to surrender. 

It’s raining tonight in thick columns, falling straight despite the breeze. It’s the type that’ll change the shade of your clothes in a few steps. But the city looks pretty in her new colours. Each droplet is reflecting yellow lights, adding a sparkle to the air. Puddles pool in subsided patches of pavement, creating little mirrors. Maybe she knows she looks pretty in night-sky navy and streetlight gold. She wants to snatch a look at herself. 

“So what do you think?” I ask her, stepping onto her streets. But she can’t hear me. This rain is dominant to both eyes and ears. It's drowning out the complainers with ease. 

I’m meeting a friend at the end of the road. We’re heading out for a walk, just a small lap around the canals. It was his idea; apparently, 100 steps after you eat keeps you healthy or something along those lines. Since he discovered that, it has become a nightly tradition, but tonight, it was a hard-fought negotiation. We’re similar in a lot of ways. We share the same taste in music, books, films, and women. But he’s still not learnt to love the rain. And maybe that’s a good thing. 

“It’s lovely tonight!” he shouts, waiting under a dripping awning.

“It is!” 

I don’t join him under the awning, it’s not worth the brief reprieve. It’s like running a long distance; at some point, resting becomes detrimental. He rolls his eyes, pulls his hood up and tightens it around his face. Remind me why we do this again? His face asks. I turn to my left and smile; this is all you. Aside from a few cars wading through the flooding roads, the streets are clear. Above us, windows glow yellow, pulsing with life and comfort. To the right, on the other side of the road, a woman is curling up beside her glowing window. There’s a mug of tea steaming by her feet and a book in her hands. What’s she reading? I can't get a good look. The columns are too dense. In another, a little further up the road, a carved pumpkin grins its wicked grin. I’d almost forgotten it was Halloween a couple of days ago. I guess the rain dampened that too, shortening the bell ringing and sweet giving. We turn a corner, sliding down a narrow side street and as soon as we do, he taps my shoulder. I turn to catch his eyes. They’re mischievous, bursting with words I’ll never hear. He’s pointing, just a little left of centre, on the third floor, another glimpse into someone's life. This time, a couple, dancing with their hands and hips glued together. From here, I guess they're somewhere in their forties, or maybe their dancing has kept them young. We turn left, emerging onto a small canal as the rain softens its descent. 

“True…” I hear between the drumming on my hood before the rain falls harder again. I’m not sure my waterproof can handle this much water. My shoulders feel damp. 

We make another left, coming out of the narrow street and back onto the canal we started on. From here, we can see the awning being pulled in for the night. Our steps are speeding up, he’s fed up. Maybe he’s felt water seeping through his waterproofs, too. The reading woman is still curled against her window, but now she’s sipping tea, watching the drops race down the glass, tracing them with her finger. He waves to her, trying to catch her eye. But she doesn’t see us; the rain’s won her attention. It’s selfish, unwilling to share. 

“Same time tomorrow?” I shout as he peels off to his doorway. But of course, he doesn’t hear me. His key turns, the door opens, and he smiles as he waves goodbye. 

See you tomorrow, he mouths.

I was right; my shoulders are damp, but only a little. The shower turns my skin inside out, like a thousand kisses. By the time I'm done brushing my teeth and pulling the linen over my shoulders, the rain has settled. It’s drumming but at a slower tempo, playing jazz instead of heavy metal. But my mind doesn’t want to play along. It’s racing off into the past, making me sweat with the thought of lost friends and unkept promises. Then, it changes direction and speeds into the future, freighting over the friends I’ve yet to lose and the promises I will eventually break. I despise this time of the day. It’s as if my bed is waiting for me, ready to spring an ambush. But I’m not alone, all I have to do is listen to the drumming. I match my breaths with it, returning to the present. No matter the past or the future, the rain will continue to fall, drumming on my window, reminding me where I should be. That’s why I love the rain, and it's why I'm sure it loves me back. 

---

Not subscribed? Sign up now and never miss out on a thing I write, never pay a cent for this newsletter, get access to exclusive offers and my members chat!

Love, Luke