#26: Rain.

The smell of rain on dry earth always made her think of him.

Of the time they spent hours sitting in the coffee shop window to avoid getting caught in the downpour outside. They’d run into each other by chance — he had just finished work and she was escaping from the stale air of the library — but they stayed until the baristas kicked them out at closing, neglecting all their other commitments that day.

Of the day he showed up at her door, completely soaked to the bone, with a bag of groceries in his hand. His car had broken down earlier in the week, but instead of cancelling their plans for the evening, he said he wanted to come over and make her dinner. They stood hip to hip and warmed their hands on the stove.

Of the first time he made her cry. She couldn’t even remember what they were arguing about anymore, but she remembered being grateful for the rain. Grateful that she wouldn’t have to explain the mascara running down her face to anyone for a while.

Of the day they broke up. It was a cold afternoon in November. She didn’t need the rain to cover her tears this time.

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