It's cold and the rain doesn't agree with my cigarette. For weeks, the sky has maintained a fairly perpetual precipitation, spanning from violent downpours to almost snow-like drifts, flutters of rain that seem best described as torrential mist. I don't really notice the rain anymore or, at least, it has ceased to faze me. Jamming my free hand into the pocket of my sweatshirt to escape the chill, I watch the wind ripple the surface of the leaf strewn swimming pool. The ground is wet so I stand hunched over the porch rail, hood drawn in an absurd attempt to stay dry. I smoke quickly during breaks in the rainfall, the light drizzle creating shadowed rings on the cement floor of the pool.
The sky strobes with distant lightning, accompanied by a faint rumbling thunder disproportionate to the harsh flashes that illuminate the clouds behind silhouetted trees. The vague murmuring is entirely overwhelmed by the nocturnal chorus of crickets preaching solitude to the night. I wander towards the pool, ignoring the threatening weather, and sit beside the water. My toes curl over the ledge, testing the concrete edge for weakness. I would walk across the surface of this water, but the stones in my pockets keep weighing me down. I leave no footprints on the rain soaked ground and my skin is slow to dry in the cool night air.