The Rain in April

It is not supposed to rain in April, and this is why the rain, when it comes, feels like a gift. The dust that has been sitting on everything for months is washed off in a single afternoon. The air, which has been a dry hand, becomes a cool cloth.

I met her on such an afternoon. We were both sheltering under the awning of a small tailor's shop on the corner of my street. She was carrying a paper bag that was slowly losing the battle with the rain. I was carrying nothing at all, having come out only for a walk.

We did not speak for a long time. It felt disrespectful to speak over the rain. When at last she turned to me and asked what I did for a living, I answered as best I could, and I asked her the same.