Unlike the rain of my childhood, which was a signal to seek shelter, this rain was a signal to stay . Because Rain 18 doesn't want you to hide. It wants to baptize you. Within sixty seconds, I was soaked through. My jeans turned to lead. My vintage band t-shirt became a transparent mess. And I started to laugh.
"No," I shouted back.
"Are you waiting for a bus?" she shouted over the roar. Rain 18
She looked at me for a long time. Then she sat down next to me on the wet curb. She threw the broken umbrella into the street, where it bounced once and disappeared into a gutter. Unlike the rain of my childhood, which was
At eighteen, you are still porous. You haven't yet built the calluses of adulthood. When the rain hits your skin at that age, it doesn't just get you wet; it gets into you. It becomes a character in your story. It was the rain that ruined your first road trip. It was the rain that soaked through your graduation gown, making the cheap polyester stick to your arms like a second skin. It was the rain that fell the night you said goodbye to your best friend, knowing you would never really be kids again. Within sixty seconds, I was soaked through
"That's the best reason I've ever heard," she said.
The rain remembers. Even if you don't.