2006.04.09

A Sunday Night in the Rain

Posted in Short Stories, Writing at 9:25 pm by Jeremiah Wittevrongel

It’s raining. At first, it started with a few drops, but those few drops quickly became a shower. It’s warm outside, and I really don’t mind. This isn’t a deluge; it’s one of those rains that seems to cleanse everything it touches. The city, the cars, even me.

It’s raining on a Sunday night, and the city is empty. There’s concrete everywhere, dripping and running with water, washing away all the sins of the daytime and the weekend, of the worker and the partier, the resident and the visitor. Washing away everything. What’s left is the city itself. My city. Even though there are people around, the city belongs to me. The skyscrapers, the empty C-Trains rumbling by, the traffic lights and crosswalks. All shimmering with water, and all mine.

The rain is dripping from my shaved head and my grinning face. My coarse beard is wet and somewhat itchy from the water, but I keep smiling. The rain feels good. My pants are getting wet, but my fleece jacket is keeping me warm enough and dry enough that I don’t really notice. My shoes look clean for the first time in weeks, the water beading up on the black leather. For a moment, I am the rain, and I feel happy.

I look up at the sky. The cloud cover stretches as far as I can see from down here, but it’s not foggy at all. Just a nice cool rain. The clouds glow with that peculiar orange glow that comes from the thousands upon thousands of city lights. That same orange glow that you can see from sixty miles away. That same orange glow I saw every cloudy night when I was growing up and lived outside the city.

I watch the rain in the streetlights, dancing and flickering and shining. I watch the rain in the puddles, dripping and splashing and beckoning. I hear the rain falling all around, drumming and gurgling and pinging.

I just want to keep walking, and for the rain to continue forever. But I’m home now. Still, the rain calls me with the irresistible lure of its siren song against my window, and it plays its undeniable tattoo on the streets below. I make a cup of hot chocolate and step onto the balcony, and lean over the railing. Watching the rain cleanse the city, my home, and my soul.