Just got home from a sweaty evening in the East Village. The air was so full of water it was almost unbearable. On my way home on the subway I’m immersed in my reading and don’t notice the weather while going over the Manhattan Bridge. Getting off the 7th Avenue stop on the Q we notice a distinct cool breeze coming down the stairs from the outside. This now matched with wetness trickling into the station, and the sound of rain pounding on the pavement. The quick ones pull out their umbrellas, snap them open, and are ready to brace the thundershowers. The slow ones step aside to prepare themselves in peace. A few brave and desperate ones just make a dash for it.

Once out in the rain, under the “cover” of my pink umbrella, I notice the puddles and the wind tearing the rain this and that direction. I briefly stop to fold up my jeans and then start walking, leaning into the stormy weather. Sandals immediately soaked, my feet slip around. The air briefly picks up my shirt and exposes my stomach. I revel in the immediacy of the moment as I feel drops grasping my skin and clothes, getting wet and heavy. Some dudes are seeking refuge in my doorway. We exchange a few friendly, rain-soaked words.

Who wants to be anywhere else right now?