When it pours
It rained for four days. Four days of rain without violence. I would have preferred violence but it just pattered a steady so-steady-it'll-surely-never-end rain for days.
And the middle-aged women drove up to the full serve pump with their model 2005 cars still showing off the first coat of wax that's beading up the rain and rolling it down to the pavement. I stood in the rain that's been raining for days, slanting in under the pump's overhang, to fill the tank up with Premium at all-but-$2 a gallon.
Their receipts drip a little when I handed them in through the open inch of the wet window. Thank you, I said, water dripping off my nose, and they drove away.
It was raining for four days and after that it might as well be 40 and the water rises from puddles to oceans and the street we live on floods with the water washing over the edges of the potholes and into pools where the asphalt is uneven and up onto the sidewalk's cracking and the dirty lawns dead from the winter.
"I'm glad the apartment's set up a few steps," my roommate said. He calls the weather "Scottish" but that makes it sound pleasent.
"I sent out a raven to see if there's any dry land left and to bring back a few groceries," I said, "but he just flew into the wet and said: 'nevermore.'"
We laughed, and wondered if there was water in the basement.
After four days of rain, I woke up this morning to look at a blue sky befuddled and surprised.