After you misjudge the width and depth of the river that rushes along the gutter, after you feel the cold seeping through your shoes and socks, creeping up your trouser legs, after you take your glasses off to smear them with the corner of your t-shirt that is slightly less damp than the others, there’s that moment when you say to hell with it, and you shake off your hood and let the drops of rain slide down each hair and caress the back of your neck, and the trees are all strung with droplets like glassblowers displaying their most delicate creations, and inside every droplet is a tiny street lamp gleaming amber.
And after that there’s the long trudge home with your jeans plastered to your legs and the rain dripping from the tip of your nose and the ache that goes beyond cold to a sort of bleak emptiness, and the sneezing fits, and the older ladies rolling their eyes as you snap “It’s viral! You can’t get a cold just from getting cold!”
Then, while you wait for the bath to run, there’s that pathetic excuse for a blog entry.
Posted by Fionnaigh at June 20, 2004 09:32 PM