I've Always Liked The Rain.

I've always liked the rain, but it isn't as nice and warm like coffee, and it's better to look at it through a window than feel it on your skin. But then, I guess that's all personal preference. If you were to ask me, I at least like to sit back and watch rain fall from behind a glass pane and have music or one of my favorite shows play in the background or run my hands through my cat's fluffy coat and debate whether her purring is actually the sound of the coffee machine brewing. I feel that today I'm in tune with the weather.

An older man opened the door for me on his way out. I didn't get to properly look at him. I just glanced at his wrinkled hand holding it long enough for me to slide by and I managed to thank him, hopefully loud enough before the door lurched closed behind me. I peered down at the black mat at my feet and shuffled my heels a bit, back and forth, to prevent water from soaking all over the gray tile floor. There were already some muddy footprints though, dried and left there from customers before me. 

The line at the front counter wasn't too long. I moved in que and peered at my phone's home screen from time to time.

The walk here from the school wasn't that long either but the unpredictable weather made it too grueling, and I wondered if my poor judgement would cost me a cold the next day. I should've brought the umbrella, too, not just the stupid coat.

"Oh—one house coffee, please." I don't know why I glanced at the menu above. I already knew what I wanted, "Make that a Grande too, please, and hot."

"Alright. Regular milk fine?"

I fished out my debit card from my wallet. Working with cash made me anxious, "Yeah, thank you."

"Did you want some extra cream and sugar off to the side?"

Maybe-

"Nope," I said.

"Anything else?"

That cake pop looks good—

"No, thank you."

Yikes. Don't be weird.

"No problem," The register lady pulled a freshly printed receipt clean off the printer and handed it to me.

It took me a moment to shove my wallet back into my purse. It's always giving me trouble when it really shouldn't.

I murmured, following suit was a nervous chuckle, “Sorry.” 

‘Sorry’ for what?

There wasn't anyone behind me. The place wasn't in a hurry.

“Don't worry, you're fine.”

I took the receipt from her hand, “Thank you,” and scurried to an empty two-seater booth against the back wall.

For a minute, I wanted to step back and disappear into the nearest void. I shrugged my coat off my shoulders and left it folded on the opposite end of the table, then slid my backpack off and dropped it at my feet. Finally, I got to lay back and rest before the same lady who took my order called me and I went up to go grab my cup.

The downpour didn't look like it'd stop until this evening, so I figured I'd make myself comfortable for a while. I'd rather be anywhere else but class, and it was warm here. I think they turned up the heater or something—I think so, I felt it from the vent above my head, and I didn't really mind, having been the kid that was always cold.

I sat back down and warmed my hands with the cup in-between. I tilted it sideways and smiled. The lady spelt my name wrong, but she was the closest most have ever been. I didn't care if it was a letter or two off, granted, I didn't really care if the entire thing was off by five letters. I found it funny. Think of it like a game, except it's like a lay-it–on-fate kind of scenario and nobody really loses.

I've always liked these places. When I was younger, my mom would take me to this exact cafe. I'd come along on days she'd be off, and we'd spend them together, but before that, it always meant tagging along with her to have her morning cup. I'd wait in line with her, entranced by the musky smell of grounded Arabica beans, and I'd ask if I could have a sip when she got hers. My mom would laugh; she laughed, then her pink lips would pull into the faintest, most delicate smile I'd seen, and she'd say, “Only a little bit. You've got more energy than you already need.”

I looked forward to those days, but now they're gone, and the only thing I had left was the future.

I glanced out the window. I watched the rain pour, and pour, and pour down onto the gray pavement; I watched the sky let out the world's pain in its frenzy of tears, and for once, I didn't feel so alone.

Maybe it was the rain that came to cry, because the knot in the back of my throat still had me tongue-tied, and the coffee couldn't wash it down. Maybe it was the rain that came and cried instead of me because I didn't want a bunch of random people staring from the other side of the room. Or, for all I knew very well, maybe it was the rain that came just because it simply wanted to.

I could learn a lot from the rain. At least it's abrupt when it wants to be. And when it's angry, it strikes white bolts into the sky, and when it's hopeful, there's a pretty rainbow after the storm.

I've always liked the rain. Why can't I be like the rain?

If I were like the rain, fearless in nature, I would've asked him how his day was. And when I had the chance to, I would've taken the seat next to his, and when it was time to leave, I would've asked if he was doing anything later that same afternoon.

I've always liked the rain. Why did she have to be like the rain?

I could learn a lot from her. At least she asked him how his day was. And when she had the chance to, she took the seat next to his, and when it was time to leave, she stuck to his side and they both smiled out the door that same afternoon.

Unlike the rain, I'm not abrupt. I struggle handling pocket change. And when I'm angry, I cry, and when I'm hopeful, all I can do is look for a rainbow.

Someday I'll be like the rain.