In life, there will always be tiny little moments that sink into your mind and stay there forever. Some feel pointless, some feel melancholy, some feel delightful and some feel humorous. This moment takes me back to the days I would sit in a coffee shop in town and finish schoolwork or continue with my stories.
pluviophile (n)
a lover of rain; someone who finds joy and peace of mind during rainy days.
I leap over my third puddle, but it is as good as jumping into it with both feet. Cars skid on the wet roads of this quaint little town as raindrops patter against my pink umbrella. The lights from the charming little shops beside me reflect tiny stars in the puddles of the night.
Forty-five minutes have passed, and I still cannot find this twenty-dollar bill I dropped on the soaked sidewalks. Instead of panicking, I’m comforted by the soothing sound the pouring water makes when it hits the concrete, the roofs of buildings and the top of my umbrella.
My hair is frizzy and my bangs are curly again. My numb feet don’t feel the cold seeping through the designed holes of my oxfords. After retracing my steps three times, I fall hopeless and pull out my phone to bother my mom in the middle of her meeting.
When she has a meeting in this little endearing town every other Tuesday, she brings me along and cuts me loose, allowing me to scamper off to the coffee shops and record stores.
She picks up the phone.
“So,” I begin, “don’t hate me, but I lost the twenty dollars you gave me.”
The shiny, wet sidewalk reflects the characteristic street clock and me. Now, my foot gently taps a puddle to make water lightly splash. I shake a frizzy strand of hair from my face.
Mom snorts. “Are you serious? You’re an idiot,” she tells me in a playful tone, and I laugh. “Come back and I’ll give you more. I still have about an hour.”
I speed back to Mom’s meeting to secure and hide the new money she gives me. And for the next hour, I sit in a tranquil coffee shop that plays some Ray LaMontagne on low volume and complete my already-late homework.
