Rain breeds loneliness. In the case of the single New York woman, there is nothing worse than coming home damp to a musty apartment. Maybe coming home with food poisoning. Maybe.
Warm rain I can handle. I put down my umbrella and let the rain soak down my hairline and drip mascara into my eyes. Others give off this look of pity, envy, and irritation. How dare I enjoy the rain? Easily, and I saunter around in my romantic mess with my raccoon eyes, drunk on the weather.
I can’t handle cold, pulsing rain. I can’t handle the emptiness of my apartment, or decipher where exactly the off-putting smell is coming from within it. Under the sink. Under the floorboards.
This is the rain that makes me yearn. It is sinking rain. It is rain to light up a joint under the covers, burning down the hours until the clouds slowly part.