July Showers

Water droplets hang in the air, suspended by New York stubbornness. Crowds of people fight their way through the heat outside Penn Station - the density of the air comparable to the densities of their bodies, making their movements almost undetectable. The world moves in slow motion.

The stillness is broken by a flash of lightening that hits the grey sky like a giant fast forward button. Thunder responds, breaking the Matrix-esque suspension and sending the droplets falling towards the dirty pavement.

They fall slowly at first, and then, as they accelerate, they grow. Blueberry-sized balls of water rush to the ground landing on honking taxi cabs, warped umbrellas and the plastic bags and newspapers held above ill-prepared people’s heads. The crowds break and reassemble under awnings and scaffolding. People moving towards shelter like ants towards a discarded apple core.

The rain has no mercy. It drenches the heat-soaked earth, the buildings, the people of Manhattan. They look up in the sky with each crash of thunder. Annoyance. Anger. Perhaps a hint of fear. They don’t believe in God, but clearly, they’re being punished for something.