I felt the rain push inland like some looming, unintelligible voice whose imminence bore weight that made me labor for a breath. First the scent of colder air, blue and fast and rigid. Then a shadow without origin, without a solid mass to give it form, but liquid and immense, crowding the space between sky and earth with the heavy folds of its thickening miasma.
The first few drops were gentle, sparse and subtle hints, like pearls of mist that leapt from distant cresting waves to tell me of encroaching tides, beads that broke softly on my shoulders and made me wonder at the open sky above to see from where they’d come. And as I lingered watching upward, the brilliance of the blue abyss grew dull, the glaring sphere of incandescent light eclipsed by depthless filmy gray that swallowed the horizon and yawned its gaping jaws around the globe. And then the water fell. So densely did it fall that I could almost dive through it up into the endless cloud, swim backward from the earth and climb the weather till I reached its crest.
But I chose to duck instead. I chose to run for cover from the stinging bath and wait for it to pass. And when it passed I walked again, but kept watch always toward the sky, kept an eye for shelter should the tempest double back.
Was it wrong of me to think the rain would come again?
Was it wrong for me to think I should have let it soak me through?