/ˈdel yüj, -yüʒ/ (n.) From Old French (12th cen.) deriving from Latin ‘diluvium,’ meaning “flood, inundation,” and ‘diluere,’ from dis- (away) + -luere combining to mean “to wash away.”
I
And just like that, the temperamental pendulum of a morose sky swings heavy as the wind picks up. Looking out from the twenty-third floor, debris is now airborne. A deflated balloon, a plastic bag, and a crumpled newspaper page float listless. They have the lightness that we don’t, because it’s the waiting that is heavier than the diluvial mood outside. The heft and weight of the atmosphere suspends. Just rain and get it over with so I can go home, we said, but impatience is as mean as those furrowed clouds.
When the sky finally fell, its fist slammed hard on the sidewalks and made rapids out of them, sluicing the stairwells and licking up dirt. Trash pooled at the gutters. Licking the fibers of our clothes until we were drenched, the waters were unsatisfied until they had their fill, commanding the wind to break umbrellas and soak what had been dry. The clouds closed and left a wet city behind. A cleaner version of itself post-rain, though anyone who knows this city knows that won’t last long.
II
You could tell it was unplanned. Worry spread like fast clouds as the first drops fell, and a freckled concrete sidewalk later, everyone was all wrinkled brows and hunched shoulders. The shirt around one girl’s waist became her cave and shelter, while a man shuffled down the sidewalk beneath a soggy book. Others without refuge had no choice but to run. Some ignored the warnings on plastic grocery bags and put them over their heads anyways.
But then of course there were the few who knew. Colorful umbrellas and wellies were an occasional parade. Gait confident, unrushed, and steady. But for most, the clouds had been indecisive all day. This was the moment they decided to pour.
