Kendrick is growling in my ear, “…where were you when I was walking?”. I love this song. Then again, I love Kendrick’s music. The wind whips against me, fresh and clear for the first time in months. No dust. It is raining, not too hard and not a drizzle either. I am walking home and I do not know when this will happen again, so I gladly let myself get soaked. The droplets bite my bare arms and face hard and I welcome the sensations. The air is filled with that rain smell. You know the one. And the smell of dried grass soaking up the moisture, the steaming cooling tarmac adding to the heady air. I hope they, the ubiquitous they, never bottle this smell and steal its innocence. The roads are empty of people, we and our peculiar fear of rain. I like it this way. Empty, to the point I start believing I own the roads. We could use the odd delusion every so often.
My tee shirt clings to my soft midriff that I have been saying I will turn into rock-hard with exercise and I consciously suck my tummy in, now aware that I am not as alone as I thought. I hope it pours harder but not just yet. It must wait until I get home. My bag is not waterproof and I am in no position to get my laptop repaired in case water gets through. The stinging on my face ceases, my skin now numb. My hands are rigid and cold and burn when I unclench them from my pockets. I feel like I have been cleaned, purified somehow. Rain cleans. Almost there. I will not have to dust my shoes today. I will just walk on the wet grass and voila! Clean again. Clean again.