The pluviophile
“What is beautiful about the rain is the aftermath.”
I love it when it rains.
They plummet down from the sky like needles, droplets crashing into the pavement, dancing ecstatically in pleasure of being introduced to the world.
When you have to clasp your hands together, your body covered with blankets to enjoy in comfort watching the raindrops racing through the window panel. Raindrops you once wished you bathed into when you were young.
As rapid as it gets, those minuscule droplets of water will soon hit the ground, flow tirelessly and get washed away. When the downpour finally ceases, people resuming their routines outdoors are welcomed by a mud-traced ground and drenched trees. After an hour or so of cloudburst comes a plain sight. It is as if heavens got tired of striking majestic thunderbolts to the ground.
Yet, what is beautiful about the rain is the aftermath. The unadorned soil you wish were waterlogged again and the breeze you wish were colder. A sliver of hope begins to grow. When you realize that a two-hour show of happiness is over, you tend to anticipate and expect another one.
I was expecting more too.
You and me.
We met in the most inconvenient way. It was raining hard when I bumped into you as I hurriedly walked past the torrent. I was soaking wet and you offered to share your umbrella, which I accepted without reluctance. We shared some awkward glances, smiles and some casual talk. I told you I wasn’t fond of bringing an umbrella, until you came.
It was half past nine and the downpour had not ceased a bit. We decided to stay at a nearby café, chatting appropriately as strangers, from nicknames, job, politics, first love and pets to the most trivial topics that ever existed. I dug a lot more than just tactful conversation, and so did you. We left with cold coffee, melted butter and a warm heart.
We exchanged phone numbers. Our conversations became far more encompassing, from friend circles and ideal partners to life goals. You untied the possibility of a more complex affiliation. By that instance, I didn’t know that the string that connected two strangers could pluck my heart too.
We met a couple of times more. I have to say that I liked the way you laughed comfortably with me. The kind of joy that sits in when all else fails. You had your bad days and I had mine. We shared the disappointments neither of us would spill with others. You opened the doors for mutual affection and I gladly entered.
But maybe rainshowers are fated to be short-lived, or your umbrella not meant for two. The stars might have misaligned the moment we made our pledge. I may have ventured farther than I should go.
Or is it you who slipped away?
We may be just victims of some crazy circumstance, or a romance bound to extinguish. Perhaps the beauty of losing is that you feed yourself with intrusive thoughts of hope and expect another wave of chances. It’s a vicious cycle.
It has not rained since then; maybe when another downpour comes, a new nostalgia will befall. There is something beautiful after the rain, more than the dazzling face of sunlight and the rainbow: It is the spring of hope and optimism.
Waiting for the heavens to strike us again with thunderstorm—for you to fall closer to me again.
Lei is a twenty-something who believes in the optimism of the search for true love. He enjoys the company of his significant other whom he hopes to be the one he’ll share his umbrella with for the rest of his life.
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