It’s a rainy Sunday afternoon, and she hears the tempest outside swirl and paint rushing images with whistles and roars of wind. It’s been raining since she woke up, and her breakfast was splattered with the delicate echoes of droplets pattering above her head.
The trees outside look dreary, as if they’ve been half-saturated, and the grass is dyed a darker shade, coated with water, but she loves it. On days like these, the clouds look like a blanket of grey cotton balls tinted with slight stains of darker grey tinged throughout. They stretch as far as she can see and suppress memories of sunshine and cerulean skies. The beads of water inch slowly down the window next to her, intersecting and conjoining. Rain patters over the sombre skylights as she sits reading in the dim light of an amber lamp, and the gale brushes her ears.
It reminds her of sitting in a classroom years ago while everyone was working quietly. Rain would splatter against the windows, and the class would become still and calm, a hush growing over the group. She would sit with her friend, looking out the slick windows at the shadows shifting as the world transformed into a cooler, greyer version of itself.
As her book’s pages crinkle, the incessant deluge pounds on. It drums and patters, joining in with the whispering flips and whirls of the wind as it dances across the grey sky.