There is a specific kind of rain that only falls when you are eighteen.
"No," I shouted back.
It isn't the soft, forgiving drizzle of childhood that sends you running indoors for hot chocolate. Nor is it the desperate, apocalyptic downpour of your late twenties, when a flood in your basement apartment means a $2,000 deductible and a fight with your landlord. No, Rain 18 is different. It is the theatrical, romantic, devastatingly loud rain of transition. Rain 18
She looked at me for a long time. Then she sat down next to me on the wet curb. She threw the broken umbrella into the street, where it bounced once and disappeared into a gutter. There is a specific kind of rain that