You made me forget my dreams.

This summer is rainy day after rainy day after rainy day.

The latest incarnation, the shower I just walked through, is these heavy, tangible, fat drops, a centimetre or two across: few and far between to start with, so that they feel like a deliberate affront when they hit you in the face, but soon running together like a stream. I’m walking home with K’s graduation rose sticking out of P’s Canon bag with my Nikon tucked safely waterproofedly inside, and I’ve got my pearls and my cassette tape t-shirt and my boy jeans and my blue socks that almost match, but one’s got skulls and crossbones on and the other has hedgehogs, and my oldest trainers on, the Converse ones from about 1999 that are more holes held together with bits of shoe than anything, and I don’t mind the rain.

My hair looks better this way anyway, an inconstant, mad tangle with sodden silky rat-tail tendrils snaking through it and dripping cold onto my hot skin, shocking in my cleavage like a tiny caress. Or perhaps it doesn’t look good at all but it feels good, it makes me feel wilder, and besides I like the smell of it later while it’s gradually drying. I’m bruised all over from Friday night‘s shenanigans.

I’m living in my two favourite pairs of jeans, in strict rotation between me and the radiator in the kitchen – they’re never both dry at the same time – and on occasion other things, my summer skirts and my spring boots, and B’s giant old Guinness t-shirt and S’s shorts (‘it’s actually just an optical illusion’), on Sunday evening when we leapt up off his bed and into the rain, having assessed its heft by watching the tree outside the bay window – B calls to S who’s in the bathroom and I run with him barefoot out into the street, laughing, aimless yet irresistibly drawn, like moths to a flame; jumping and splashing in all the puddles, the filthy streams of the gutters, fag ends or no fag ends we jump in there nonetheless, the cold water feels amazing on my feet, it’s unstoppable and immediate, it’s how I’d like to be.

B’s got no shirt on and when I hug him it’s surprising the difference it makes, you don’t usually touch your friends’ bare skin, strange even when it’s wet and feels slick like a seal, which it does now. It reinforces the instinctive feeling, the real-ness of the moment; it feels necessary and inevitable, I don’t know what the carful of traffic wardens think, or the people in their flats watching from the windows. If I were them, I’d want to join us; fuck that, I’d want to be us. When the thunder rolled it woke something up inside us, we are savage, we are frank, we are human. Human in the rain.

It doesn’t feel like the rain is ever going to end, and that’s okay. It’s right now; by which I mean, it’s what’s happening now and it’s right, it fits, S’s shorts fit me, everything fits me and it’s okay. I feel what I am: young and alive.

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