Rain 18 Instant

I never saw her again. But I think about her every time it storms. Rain 18 doesn't last forever. Eventually, the clouds break. The sun comes out, cruel and bright. You go home. You take a hot shower. You dry off. And something has shifted.

"Are you waiting for a bus?" she shouted over the roar. Rain 18

The rain remembers. Even if you don't.

It isn't the soft, forgiving drizzle of childhood that sends you running indoors for hot chocolate. Nor is it the desperate, apocalyptic downpour of your late twenties, when a flood in your basement apartment means a $2,000 deductible and a fight with your landlord. No, Rain 18 is different. It is the theatrical, romantic, devastatingly loud rain of transition. I never saw her again

The rain hit my face. It was cold. It was loud. And for just a moment, I was eighteen again. I didn't know what was going to happen tomorrow. I didn't have a plan. I was just a collection of atoms, enjoying a storm. Eventually, the clouds break

The first drop hit my wrist. Then my cheek. Then the crown of my head.

I didn't have a good answer. So I told the truth. "Because I don't know what happens tomorrow."