The rain was coming down in great sweeping curtains that shifted and danced across the lawn. The night sky shimmered with water and crackled with lightning over Jo’s head. Jess propped a shoulder in the threshold of her front door and took stock of her little sister on the stoop; she had a bottle of white wine in one hand and a Kroger bag that clung to the frost rimming two pints of Haagen-Dazs in the other.
“I don’t have a grown up relationship, but I’ve got alcohol and ice cream.”
Jess pushed back the door and invited her in wordlessly, not trusting herself to say the right thing. Jo came in shaking raindrops out of her hair, rubber clogs making squeaking sounds against the hardwood before she shucked them and left them by the umbrella stand. Jess watched the wet, black, slick street a long moment, watched the rain pour over everything and glaze the neighborhood, fast tongues of lightning licking out of the clouds; listened to Jo’s small, bare feet as she went into the kitchen and set her peace offerings on the counter.It wasn’t supposed to be this way.
It's felt like living in the UK this week: green, rainy, swirling with fog that clings like wet tissue paper. There's something atmospherically beautiful about rain. It makes things grow. Its restless drumming soothes my nerves; the cold trickles sliding down the inside of my hood amp them up again. I love to write about it.
But a little sun wouldn't kill me.