You could say it was a night to match my mood. Light rain had been falling intermittently for most of the day, and after a never-ending stint at work (don’t need to go into what’s wrong there), and a staff screening of an upcoming film (The Brothers Bloom; I’ve been waiting to see it for at least a year—finally watching it was deeply satisfying, and Adrien Brody is so great) I decided to walk home instead of getting a ride. The ride would have involved talking and not going straight home plus some walking (sigh, I will never understand that part) and I was really not in the frame of mind to deal with that. You know how sometimes being uncomfortable and alone is better than being around people? Yeah. So as I walked it started to rain once again, and although I had an umbrella, I decided against utilising its partial shelter in anticipation of the feeling of walking in the rain, and being wet, and arriving home and drying off. The small matter of discomfort is nothing compared to the feeling of being alive and in the moment that these things bring.
The glow from the lights, reflected off the wet roads, turns the world into some cinematic dream. The drifting rain picks up the light and drapes everything with a touch of mystery. My hair is plastered to my head and water drips from my eyebrows. My shirt clings wetly to the contours of my back and I anticipate with pleasure its removal right before I get into my patiently waiting bed. The water has a chill to it that tickles my lower back and I swing my umbrella and think about nothing in particular.