A woman stands in a doorway watching sheets of rain fall from a poorly guttered roof. It’s the sort of rain that can be called a downpour; relentless in its assault on the city. She’s so used to the rain. Used to the way it soaks into the ground until the earth is saturated and can’t take up anymore and the puddles form everywhere; soggy mines on grassy fields. The streets can’t handle the onslaught and cars rush along on impromptu rivers sending sheets over dirty water fanning out like wet, muddy wings that pedestrians scramble to avoid.

There’s a sea of umbrellas below her. From the balcony she watches them jostle and bump into each other. They’re doing jo good to their owners; providing little relief from a wet so thorough that only those wise enough, lucky enough, to stay indoors are saved from its embrace. 

Adding insult to injury, it’s cold. Not cold enough to snow, that would be a blessing. It’s cold enough that she can see her breath and the the rain has an angry bite. She should go inside; instead she wraps the blanket tighter around her shoulders and watches the rain pelt the city. He’s out there somewhere, in the rain. She wonders if he’s rushing through the crowded sea of black umbrellas; close but delayed. Or maybe he’s in one of the frantic cars pacing through the mired streets closer to her than she believes, parking now, getting out to fly up the steps to where she is. 

She can feel him. All the time. What his hands feel like against her skin in the dark. What his mouth feels like pressed against hers. She runs a finger across her lips. Can almost taste him. He’s out there. Close enough but still too far away. Anywhere but her side, too far. 

She watches the rain. It’s picking up; a seemingly impossible task, but it does. Pounding on tin and tar rooftops, sheets pouring from eaves and awnings, leaves heavy under the weight of the flood and flowers bent in beds along the sidewalk. He’s out there. She knows. The rain will bring him to her. It always has. She waits.

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