In The Rain

Thinking about what a
Friend had said
I was hoping it was a lie.
-- Neil Young, After the Goldrush

I like things that are steady and constant, reliable even. I don't want it to stop raining. It has been raining since yesterday morning. I walked through the rain to have lunch at a sushi bar. The woman that runs it still remembered my name. I haven't been there in months. Later in the evening, sitting at the bar downstairs, I would do constant checks out the window to make sure that the downpour had not stopped. Yup, still raining, as Nymphalidae turned to hide her tears from the bartender while she ordered another double Bushmills. What is one to say? Nothing, but I can listen.

The rain spit on my forehead, kept it slick and cool, as I walked up to the gallery on the corner to say hi to Leroy. What art? We stood at the back, staying close to where the drinks were being served. We smiled a little, laughed a little, drank a little, and took some pictures. I ran to the cab, my feet splashing in puddles that seemed to have and endless supply of water to keep them full. The window of the cab was steamed with a light film that allowed for a distorted view of the urban lights. Hot pinks and steel blues reflecting on the wet leather jackets of the couples running up the avenue to their reserved tables. Hindu pop blared on the delco stereo. The driver never stopped talking on his cellphone.

I watched Ananta get dressed through the crack in the bathroom door while I uncorked the Gewurztraminer. A fantastic meal of fowl, seafood, and imported cheese followed. We sat by the window slowly eating, and from her perch on the east side I could see the blades of grass collectively drink in the nourishment falling in sheets of grey from above. Her apartment was lovely and I imagined myself hiding there forever. Signs would be plastered all over the neighbourhood offering a reward for information as to my whereabouts. Ananta would feed me, dance for me, love me. Eventually I would cease to exist.

Waiting for the bus with the rest of the urban revellers, I watched the black street dance with an infinity of silver slivers. Taking my seat towards the front of the coach , the sound of electricity arcing from one place to another could be heard as the bus banged its way along the inside lane of the street. Water was leaking in through a rivet on the roof and dropping onto my knee. If it wasn't for the occasional view of a building or person through a light spot in the fog on the window, I would think we were underwater. I arrived at my block, cut through the alley and looked up to the spread of windows that my place occupied on the fourth floor. I could see a light hint of red glowing from inside, and the building looked timeless, cold, and slightly fleeting. Within three minutes I was standing in my home, looking out the windows I had just been studying from the street, watching the alley I had just come through. I hoped for a lapse in time so I could watch a replay of the moments that had just unfolded from a different angle. The puddles down below were still overflowing, and with that comforting vision, I went to bed. I hope it doesn't stop raining.