Sidewalks

It's pouring rain. From where I'm sitting, in my dark "office", I see it falling on eucalyptus, oaks, redwoods. When I was a teenager, and as angst-ridden as any I've ever met, I used to love the rain. Rain opens up possibilities: it used to feel like things could happen when it was raining that couldn't happen when the sun was shining. Good things, like someone falling in love with you. Or like escaping, this place, this time, this person. I used to feel like if I could claw through my skin, someone else would emerge from the carcass, someone more lovable, more beautiful, just more. I could live a white-clothed life hazed in gold, and I would finally be able to be happy.

Back then, I had a friend who routinely made me cry. I think I was in love with him, at least a little bit. The way he palmed the steering wheel when he drove. The way his voice sounded late at night. Back then, I was always looking for someone to understand me. The nightmares in my closet, the rage and ache knotted in my chest. He said once that he loved the smell of sidewalks after the rain. But that wasn't what I meant.

Now I know that I wasn't so hard to understand. That makes me saddest of all.