New Years

It rained at the amusement park that day, here in a place where it's not supposed to rain, not ever.

We had been looking forward to it for weeks. We were determined.

It rained so hard that the drops stung our faces, and the water pooled at our feet until we had to roll up our pantlegs to have some semblance of being dry. And even then, your shoes squished.

It rained so hard that we looked at each other from across the table, under the one dry alcove that allowed us admittance as well as truly awful cornmeal pizza, and just stared. Silently. Because we were two smart people, and what were we thinking? Did we think we were somehow impervious, covered in intangible slicker skins? Did we think the rain wouldn't catch us?

I told you it was okay if you wanted to leave. We'd been there an hour and a half. But my jeans were sticking to my legs, and the denim dye was running, and it was cold. There probably wouldn't have even been fireworks. Happy new year to us, too stubborn to stay inside during a downpour.

So we went home, and we dried off, and we fell asleep watching insipid talk shows.

Looking back on it now, I remember the look on your face, the water sliding off your nose. I remember the ride back, how we quietly fumed at ourselves, how we finally burst into laughter, because that was really the only thing we could do.

And I wouldn't have made it sunny that day if I could.