After days of 97-degree heat, this may be the "first," biggest thunderstorm of the year. And I'm just lucky enough to be in cotton clothes that I don't mind getting wet; I throw on flip-flops (specifically slipped into my mini suitcase for tromping through the rain) and run downstairs, onto Sixth Avenue. The raindrops are so big they hurt as they hit, but I couldn't be happier -- in fact, I'm probably the happiest person on the street, since most others (especially those without umbrellas) are gunning for shelther.
I hop into puddles, gape at the sky, lightning strobes flashing but softened by rainclouds thicker than custard. It's raining harder than it did before our wedding, cooling the whole city faster than any air conditioning unit man could ever make.
Then, the droplets falter, but electricity still rips the sky, tearing the heat with a low roar, a duet with the rumble of the subway below my feet, accompanied by the sweeping soothing hiss of taxi cabs gliding over pavement.
The orchestration is perfect. And I am happy to be in New York, alive.