New York City, July 30, 2015

★★★★ Clear sun from the east met charcoal-gray clouds in the west. A short while later, the first shower had already wetted the streets and gone. A wheel of the scooter ran through a little clump of smoldering tobacco fibers on the damp sidewalk; a tiny rooster tail of water flared when the scooter crossed a decorated Con Edison manhole. The air felt pre-sweated into. The breeze off the river made a brave roar in the ears but carried less than one block inland. Ambient vapors made the phone’s touchscreen finicky. In the unfinished office, every crackle of the plastic sheeting sounded like driving rain. Real rain came again and left again, with the sun behind it. There was enough time to walk to lunch, but a lunch companion running a few minutes late came in rain-spattered. That rain passed too, and it began to feel as if the showers were being personally obliging, even as flood warnings thrummed through the 1 train — an illusion that lasted up to 66th Street, where exiting passengers cleared the turnstiles and stopped in shock, with audible exclamation. Rain was hammering the stairways, exploding into whiteness, the splash on each step going higher than the tread. A train pulling away drew the spray after it, over the crowd. People came down the stairs utterly drenched, clothes saturated and drooping. After a few minutes, the cataract seemed to have subsided to a mere downpour, enough to tempt escape. But if what was falling had diminished at all, it was fully offset by the swirling waters underfoot. Two blocks was enough to flood the shoes, while a renewed deluge soaked through the shirt and left hair wet to the scalp. The day-camp pickup would require a detour: dry t-shirt, dry socks, rubber-bottomed boots, and the rain jacket, with the child’s boots and rain jacket in a bag. In the minutes it had taken to pull the gear together, the barrage of rain had ceased. The sun began to burn through, and the waterproof equipment became pure encumbrance. What was running down the face now was sweat. Another cycle — or two? — would pass, with lightning and pelting water, before a compact but vivid sunset certified it was over.