I used to think that rain was romantic. That it held possibility. It smells fresh and delicious and intoxicating and it whispers of new beginnings as it pounds against the ground. When it rained, you could imagine your car breaking down. You could imagine some hot guy stopping his car to help you out, the rain plastering his hair to his face and soaking you both. You could imagine leaning in closer to him with the roaring of the storm in your ears and smelling damp earth on him and kissing, with rain pattering relentlessly on top of the two of you, while the wind blew and you both froze. But it would be alright. Being cold doesn't matter half so much if you're cold with someone else.
I always thought rain was like that, so wonderful and fresh and exciting and romantic.
At least, up until I found my boyfriend dead on the pavement in the middle of a thunderstorm three days before my birthday.
That came out a lot grimmer than I meant it to be... :P