The Woman and the Monsoon

The rain falls on the righteous and the wicked.

A woman observes.

Throngs of faceless culture pulse by the bench where she sits, legs curled awkwardly beneath her, eyes following the anonymity down the sidewalk. A taupe Sabrina heel dangles from her toes; its complement lies unconcerned in a puddle below her feet.

Thoughts of levees breaking and tsunamis crashing and witches melting keep their distance this afternoon. It’s lovely water, here around the bench. Life-giving water. Cool on her face, trickling through her hair, kissing her legs, running from her fingers. And a city hurrying past to stay dry.

The woman remarks to herself how such synchronicity can spring from many lives unified in the rain. A trench coat, a t-shirt, a pinstripe suit run by with rhythmic footsteps and matching umbrellas.

The street is dark, it rumbles with thunder. Stormclouds are settling low over the square now, yet the woman illuminates herself with smiles. The city sounds fade into a million splashes, and she is beautiful.

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