the memory of rain

It rained for six days straight. The gutters filled with water, gardens turned into swamps and the streets were so flooded that driving home from work was like taking a submarine. The streets never emptied, though. Even in the downpour the people scurried past, in black and grey, heads bowed. Every night, when I lay in my bed with the quilt clutched around me in a desperate attempt to stay warm, I looked out my window at the grey sky. Raindrops made tracks on the dirty glass and I followed them with my eyes. All I could hear was the drumming sound on the roof and the occasional woosh of a car driving through the drowning streets.

But then the rain stopped. I woke one morning to find a weak blue sky staring at me, blearily. There was nothing but the memory of rain on the sidewalk, accompanied by the unmistakeable smell of damp concrete. I walked to work that day. Aside from me, the streets were completely empty.