It's early morning. Eyes aflutter. Grey skies peek through the blinds. The room's awash in a pink glow emanating from the lamp you decided to keep lit, thanks to neither of your roommates being home. Even quiet college towns can be a bit scary at night, you know. A constant drizzle is providing the perfect melody, steadily crescendoing into a heavy pouring. It smells clean. Fresh.
A draft envelopes you from the open, but blinded windows. The pillows are cold, but the down blanket nest is warm and toasty if you burrow yourself deep enough.
There's a low rumble. And again. And again. Thunder. It never thunders in California. In fact, it hasn't rained at all in California for awhile. So this - all of this - is a happy reprieve.
People here don't really know how to deal with the rain. Everyone's soaked because no one thought to bring a weatherproof jacket or a, what's it called? Umbrella? Through the duration of class, gazes settle on the downpour through the open windows, rather than on the professor chattering on up front. A lecture lets out, and a boy looks at the rain and comments, "now that's nasty!" ... It's barely drizzling. I don't think people realize how much they've missed the rain (outside of the fact that the drought shut down our gorgeous fountains for months).
But we have. We've missed the rain, and the rainboots, and the rainbows, and that it justifies rainy day treats like Funfetti cake batter dip and lots of coffee and long naps and puddles and and and and and.