My last hour at the office, the skies grew ever darker.
I had not brought my umbrella to work with me; it was barely cloudy when I left the house and I neglected to check the weather forecast. Even at lunch, sitting on the outdoor patio at Chipotle, what clouds there were were billowy, cottony affairs, not at all like rainclouds. They lacked the requisite menace.
As I stepped outside, just before six, the oppressive feeling of an impending storm was manifestly evident. The clouds were dark, and they held a vile countenance. Raindrops, large and cold, had begun to fall. But it was the smell that was most telling of all.
The world smelled of dust.
I expected the rain’s tempo to increase as I walked the two blocks to the rail stop. It stayed light, however, and I enjoyed the feel of rain falling upon me, and that dusty smell that accompanies the storm was comforting. It was only when I reached the bottom of the hill and the train stop itself that the rain picked up, enough to drive people under the shelters.
I thought I could forego the safety of the shelters, but then the rain went from light to heavy. Raindrops pattered against the concrete, the leaves rang out as they were pounded with rain from above. I sheltered under a locust tree; I liked the feel of the rain, and the leaves blocked enough rainfall that I did not become soaked, but still let enough through that I could reasonably feel that I were standing in rain.
The rain subsided as I waited for the train. And by the time I reached downtown, the rain had ceased completely.
I liked the feel of the rain. It was pleasant. Cleansing.