I’ve got to get out of these clothes– fast. The rain is finally falling down in drops large enough to wet the pavement whole. A rare thing here in Southern California, it’s soaking the plants outside in the yard enough to drip their excess moisture into the dry soil below. Gleaming the usually too bright stone with a damp gray. Casting an unusual shadow on the world that is so often– far too often– drenched in too bright sun.
Scooting out of jeans and pulling shirt over head, I fidget my way out of a bra too tight and strip off socks, hopping from one foot to the other, and run into the downpour.
I expect nature, soft and glistening, kissing against my pale pieces offset by sun burnt skin. I imagine the rain would envelope me into its loving grasp, lifting me up into a world you cannot know without experiencing the full embrace of nature.
Instead I’m met with the chill of the drops, wet and cold. Pounding heavily onto my held high forehead, running colder and colder as it travels down my goose bumped body. The wind blows a chill against the lingering drops of cloud water. The mud spreads between my toes.
I stand shivering, arms held out wide in purposeful defiance, willing the storm to take me as her own.