it was raining; she was trapped, but not without escape. wait it out, or ignore the slight inconvenience of walking through a downpour. wait it out, or. no. ignore it; indefinite waiting gets you nowhere.

stepping out, seemingly the lone target of the clouds, slippery sandals slipped off in more of an act of precautionary safety than anything, swinging, dripping, caught on an index finger.

cool drops forming warm puddles, leeching heat from cement that had been collecting sunshine all morning.

wishes of dance to complete the pretty picture, if only, and then realizing she was already, because dance is a state of mind, dance is relative, dance is the perfect metaphor. a walk is a dance if you think it’s a dance, neurotransmitters mid-tango.

now-vibrant undergarments proving that tropical rains and white-shirted school uniforms make a grin-worthy combination; wet hair smelling again like the morning’s shampoo; smiles in a deserted street.

she got to where she was going and the downpour stopped.

people think scenes like this only happen in movies, people only write dreamily about them, make poetry and art and sing songs about them. but clichés start somewhere. somebody took that first long walk on a beach. life described is art; life itself should also be art.

thank You for the rain. she needed that.