The forecast lied. It always lies in August. I took the 2 train to Brooklyn to read in Fort Greene Park because I'd been staring at fabric swatches all week and my brain needed grass.
I got maybe twenty peaceful minutes. Then the sky over Fort Greene Park went the color of old bruise and the thunder rolled in like it had somewhere to be.
Everyone scattered. Strollers, dogs, the guy doing shirtless pull-ups who I swear lives there. I stood up too, ready to run for the DeKalb Avenue side, and then — I don't know. I just didn't.
I sat back down and let the thunderstorm in Fort Greene Park absolutely soak me.
My sandals were done for. My book, a poor Rupi Kaur situation I'm too embarrassed to admit I was enjoying, turned to pulp. My kajal ran down my face like I was auditioning for a Sanjay Leela Bhansali monsoon scene. Full Bollywood. All I needed was a wet dupatta and a longing gaze.
But it was warm rain, the kind we get back home during the monsoon, and something in my chest unclenched that hadn't unclenched in months.
There's a specific freedom in giving up on staying dry. New York asks you to armor up constantly — be fast, be sharp, don't get caught out. A thunderstorm in Fort Greene Park is the city's way of saying, sit down, you fool, none of it matters, get wet.
When it passed, the whole park steamed. The light went golden. A kid jumped in a puddle and screamed with joy and honestly, same.
I squelched back to the train ruined and grinning.
Some days you fight the city. Some days you just let it rain on you.
Love,