I liked rain, usually. I liked the smell of it, damp and sweet, and the sound of it—drops splattering against windows and rattling through drainpipes. When I was little, I had loved splashing in puddles, letting the lukewarm water muddy the cuffs of my jeans, even knowing my mother would yell at me for it later. It was worth it for that moment when feet breached surface, when you just knew you were about to be transported to a land of magic and fairies and princesses.
On my walk tonight, however, all I could notice was how the water smudged my glasses, seeped through the cuffs of my jacket, chilled my nose and cheeks. Again, it wasn’t that I disliked rain. Only that I’d been looking forward to this walk, to getting out of my apartment after sitting at my desk all day, to having a pleasant grocery shopping trip, and I guess I just hadn’t counted on the rain.
I would enjoy it later on, I told myself. When I was back home and changed into sweatpants and cooking to the sound of drops pattering against my kitchen windows. I sighed, forced my shoulders to relax, and stepped inside the store.
It was busy. Busier than I would have expected for a Friday night. As I hovered at the edge of the produce department, waiting for space in front of the fridges to open, I fished out my phone and pulled up my shopping list.
3 gala apples. Tick.
3 bananas. Tick.
2 heads of broccoli. Tick.
The tick was metaphorical. I used the strikethrough feature in the notes app on my phone. I knew there was a way to actually check off a list on your phone, but I liked the finality of the strikethrough. It was done. No going back. No more broccoli to grab.
I had developed my grocery list system years ago. I separated products based on their type and how I moved through the store: refrigerated produce then room temp produce then dairy then pantry staples…then, occasionally, alcohol. Today, I did make use of my alcohol space. It was a Friday night, and I wanted to sip a glass of wine while I cooked.
2 celery stalks. Tick.
3 carrots. Tick.
1 red bell pepper—no red bell peppers.
After scanning the section again to make sure I didn’t miss it, I shoved the cart forward. Luckily, I needed the red pepper for tomorrow night’s meal, not tonight’s, so I could always venture out to find another store tomorrow. In fact, a planned walk for tomorrow would be nice.
Before picking up any other items, I checked the weather app on my phone and scrolled past all the clouds with blue streaks beneath them until—yes, a whole string of little suns!
Feeling less frustrated about today’s rain, I switched back to my list.
2 onions, one yellow, one red. Tick.
1 eggplant. Tick.
My cart squeaked across the linoleum as I passed the dairy aisle. The grocery store I frequented was small, so there were only two aisles for pantry staples, and both were backed up with visitors. I scrolled through Instagram as I waited.
1 bread flour. Tick.
1 can chickpeas. Tick.
2 cans fire-roasted tomatoes—no fire-roasted, so regular tomatoes would have to do. I could add some red pepper flakes.
Now all I needed was the wine, so I took my time perusing the options. I loved reading the flavor notes and pairings and wondering who was lucky enough to have the jobs of writing them.
I decided on a merlot. Notes of plums and cherries, pairs with pasta, which would be my meal tomorrow night.
1 bottle of red wine. Tick.
I handed my reusable bags over to the cashier and let my eyes roam the store while she checked me out. It was a mix of people. Some were like me, solo shoppers, bundled up in sweaters and leggings and raincoats, rushing out after work to stock up for the weekend. Other people were in groups, no list, brandishing items to each other for close inspection, gouda and prosciutto for charcuterie boards. Then there were the couples, dividing and conquering, one partner picking ingredients for homemade pasta, the other dashing off for wine.
$35.72.
More than I expected, until I remembered the wine. Well, we all needed to treat ourselves sometimes. I smiled at the cashier as I swung my bags onto my shoulders, thank you, have a nice day, you too.
As I left, I wondered why we still said that when it was no longer day. Perhaps because evening sounded too formal, but at six o’clock, night seemed a bit premature? Or perhaps night was the better term…the sun had set while I was inside, and it was nearly dark now. It was still raining, although all I could see of it was within the circles of light from streetlamps, and all I could feel of it was the dripping into my face whenever I tiled my head down.
But soon enough I would be home. I would change into sweatpants and play music through my TV, something soft like film scores or acoustic. I would chop vegetables, send them sizzling into shimmering olive oil and breathe in the aroma of onion and garlic softening. I would drink wine as I stirred broth and decided on what book to read later on.
I was distracted from my thoughts by movement. Up above, in a window lit up brighter than the streetlamps, I saw a girl. No—two girls. Dancing.
The one closest to the window moved boldly, dancing to the rhythm of the rain falling, her dress billowing, brushing the edges of the curtain, while behind her, the other girl swayed. A little smaller, a little shyer. Her sister, perhaps?
It seemed…unreal. Perhaps because my glasses were smudged from the rain, perhaps because their light glowed softly like yellow string lights, but there was an edge of magic to these little girls, and I couldn’t help but stop and watch them as them as they danced.
The girl closest to the window saw me watching. She paused her dance, her arms still raised in imitation of the rain.
She waved at me.
I froze. How could she even see me? Should I look away, should I keep walking? My shopping bags dug into my shoulders, and my skin felt wet and cold, but—
I smiled. I lifted my head. I waved back.
Her mouth widened, and what sound did she make? A scream of delight? Her sister’s name—sister, sister, come here, come look! Someone from the street waved back at me!
When she waved again, I was ready. I broadened my smile. I flapped my arms more wildly through the air. I laughed.
The sisters danced, faster, faster—faster than the falling rain. And as they danced, their hair twisted and tumbled around their shoulders, their arms swayed before the window, but soon I was passing, passing. I had to go home.
My apartment was warmer than outside, but not as warm as I’d hoped it would be. After dumping my groceries onto the kitchen counter, I fiddled with the thermostat. Then, I threw off my clothes and pulled on a dry sweatshirt and pair of sweatpants and fuzzy socks.
Returning to the kitchen, I unloaded the groceries. I pulled out a kitchen knife and a cutting board and a glass of wine, but I was still cold, so I went to my living room, sank into the couch, and drew a blanket over my feet.
I loved this apartment. I had lived here for two years now and had touched every corner of it, making it my own. I had hung travel prints on the walls and stacked books onto end tables. I had draped string lights over the fireplace and tossed throw pillows onto the couch. I had placed a houseplant in the corner and another one in the kitchen, and I had been able to keep them alive.
They must have been sisters. And that window must have led into their bedroom. How much time had they spent there, I wondered? Together.
If I closed my eyes, I could see it all—see them playing dress up on Sunday afternoons, drowning in their mother’s clothes as they paraded in front of a mirror. I could see them acting out scenes—whole stories, even—with their little toy dolls and horses and airplanes.
And at night, I bet they giggled beneath their sheets after being tucked into bed. They whispered dreams across to each other and exchanged secrets of who they wanted to be.
I almost didn’t wave back to them. Because what did she see in me, that bold little girl? A hunched shape, bundled beneath layers of raincoat and glasses and shopping bags, but somehow, she believed I would wave back.
What would have happened, if I hadn’t waved back? It was not hard to imagine: The little girl would learn to think before waving at strangers. She would grow up knowing that the world did not smile at you for dancing. Her waves would become hesitating, small, almost invisible, the beat of a hummingbird’s wings—yes, I could see her now! Putting up a curtain in her attic bedroom and keeping it closed so that no one from the street could ever again watch her dance.
Darby Brown is an emerging writer and poet from Nashville, TN. She holds an MA in Creative Writing from the University of Birmingham and now lives in London where she works as a bookseller, freelance editor, and workshop facilitator. Her poems have been published by Hey Young Writer and Palimpsest, among others, and in her work, she enjoys playing with form and exploring themes such as belonging, longing, fear, and growth. She can often be found exploring new coffee shops and spending way too much time making elaborate meals in the kitchen. Check out her Instagram @darbybrownwrites and her website https://www.darbybrownwrites.com/.
Featured image by C G on Unsplash.
