Pluviophile; (n). A lover of rain; someone who finds joy and peace of mind during rainy days.
Grey skies, grey pavement, grey rain. One hundred thousand tints of grey, painting the world in a bleak rainbow.
Sheets of rain pelted the sidewalks with such force that a small mist rose from the impact. A little black umbrella trembled against the wind, held up by slender, pale fingers wrapped tightly around the handle.
A breath of wind shifted the rain and it travled near sideways; almost as if, rather than falling, it was on a journey, swept from one cloud to another- a skyway subway.
An icebit breeze nipped at a rosy pair of cheeks and coaxed warmth from the tip of a button nose. It delivered rain like mail, little droplets speckling an ever-so-slightly smiling face as a crystalline set of freckles. The rain that hadn’t made it to its chosen cloud settled for exploring the earth below, finding its way in every crack and crevice. It wound its way down windchimes, falling to the soft tinkling tune the brass bars and decorative tin dragonflies on the chime made as they swayed in the ever-soft wind.
Some drops snaked their way through shingles on decades-old rooftops, burgundy with age. Some fell softly to the grass, which beamed a vivid, cheerful green as they drank in the quiet rainstorm, and sank into the soil, darkening it slightly with moisture.
Yet others made their ways to windows of schools and houses and libraries. Three dozen found their home on the glass of a small cafe window, lacing their way in and around each other, painting a dazzling spiderweb of an artwork for the cafe-goers to enjoy.
They took the warm, cozy light of the cafe- light fostered from pull-chain lamps with mahogany-cream lampshades and enhanced still by the enticing scent of freshly-baked croissants- and split it into a homey, welcoming array of oranges and yellows and soft creamy browns, like a cost-free advertisement for the happy little cafe.
Gazing out of the window was a set of faraway eyes, tranquil despite the heavy dark bags under them that would suggest otherwise, a little black umbrella leaned up against a wall near them. They watched the rain, falling in sleek, diamond-esque curatins.
Many of the cafe’s customers also stared out of the old, tinted windows, but warily. Many murmured warnings to the others, in quiet, afraid voices, breath catching in fear as they exchanged “Careful out there,” or “What monstrous weather..!”
But these eyes saw no danger. After all, the only thunder was the pounding of the rain on the soaked pavement, the only lightning was the rippling wave of light and wind and water as the rain fell, and the only threat was losing yourself in the oasis of calm- for, they didn’t view the cafe as the calm in the storm; rather, they saw the storm as the calm in the world.
The pale hand lifted a steaming cup of coffee up to a pair of smiling lips.