Send a Little Rain (story)

this is unfinished, but I wanted to post what I had so far. I used to post my stories on here nearly 4 years ago (((sorry about that to those who lost brain cells to them, I just went through and had to suffer through rereading them))), and I wanted to post this one here. Feel free to leave a comment!
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Rain, rain, go away! Come again some other day!??? Is how the old childhood rhyme goes. Imagine it, a couple of kids standing by the window, watching how the drops slide down and merge with the others, how their breath fogs up the glass and giggle about the pictures they can draw into it. They lean their head back to the window sill and listen to the sound of the rain drops hitting the pavement, splaying across the grass, dancing upon the rooftop. The soft rhythm of a pit-pat, playing patty-cake with the earth???s crust drifts through their ears, getting even louder when they shut their eyes. It becomes a melancholy lullaby for the sky, the song the clouds sing to put the city to sleep- and keep antsy, reckless children trapped in their house for the afternoon. They open their eyes and turn to each other, pouting slightly before running off to cause more tragedy within the house, abandoning the scene of a weeping city.
Rain, rain, go away; come again another day.
It???s a shame, really, because I???ve always loved the rain; the way it clears the sky, the air, the atmosphere of that lingering feeling of disappointment. It washes out our breaths of sorrow to bring a signal of a better day, as the sun peeks through the clouds and the scent of freshly clean air fills our noses.
The rain is a symbol of the end of the end and the start of a new beginning, it???s a chance to move forward from the past and to look ahead at a future that we couldn???t even begin to imagine. I think that representation is what draws me so much to it. The need of repentance, the desperate desire of a rebirth seems to be the only thing that can clear my mind nowadays.
Now, when I say that I love the rain, it???s not a means to individualize myself. Every intellectual kid stuck in the pretentious shadow of art uses it as an excuse to call themselves unique. Every poet has line after line piled into their head to use as a metaphor about the way rain washes away sin, or brings upon the glory of sunshine, or represents an inner sadness that not even the world can help but bend beneath. Loving the rain is the new fad of dip dyed hair and wide frame glasses, abused to the point that not even the truly unique can use it as an idiosyncrasy.
So when I display how much I love the rain, it can barely even be counted as a way to describe myself as different. Luckily for me, you, and the sake of metaphor, however, I???m not trying to.
I???m trying to tell a story.
Once upon a time, in a small town in Maryland lived a young man who had lived all his life with the mind of a cynic. This boy was skeptical; he refused to believe in anything his eyes couldn???t see, that his hands couldn???t feel, or his ears couldn???t hear. His mind was ruled by science and logic, a mind that wouldn???t listen to anything that couldn???t be explained without a formula. He was a boy that denied his heart the job that it was supposed to own.
He was a boy that didn???t believe in love.
Now, heartless boy worked at a small coffee shop along a main street in his suburban area, a shop that had become extremely popular to the general public of the town. Needless to say, he dealt with many people of different kinds day to day. Most of them, however, never really caught his attention. Along with love, faith, and all that fall between, socializing was never something he was too keen on. People, he believed, were hardly worth his time.
So there lives a cynical boy with a hard heart and a skeptical mind that depends on the idea of living the rest of his years alone. But the question is, can something even just walk in and change his entire life, his beliefs, his morals, everything? He doubted that it would ever happen.
Well, with the quaint, simple ring of the bell on the caf?? door and dripping wet leather boots taking their first steps on the green doormat at the entrance, something did just walk in to not only the coffee shop, but skeptic boy???s life for good. With eyes as gray and foreboding as an oncoming storm and dark, seemingly endless, infinite hair cascading down her back, she walks in.
Her hands, pale with long, piano fingers, push back on the door and close it shut behind her. Those eyes of the storm drift slightly over the caf?? in a brief second of inspection. Girl of rain pushes her drenched dark hair away from her face, one long drop of water slides down and curls at the end of her jutting jawbone.
It???s almost a dream as she walks up to the counter; the way her body moves so breathlessly and gracefully with each step her feet take, as if she is the wind of a summer shower and the ground beneath her is the grass swaying slightly with every sigh of a breeze. The world seems to stop, time seems to stop, and even cold, cynical boy???s heart seems to stop as she steps up to the counter with a slight smile, her lips curling upward like a ray of sunshine peeking between storm clouds.
???Just a vanilla cappuccino, if you please.???
This is the story of the boy who fell in love with the rain.
Her voice was even a metaphor, the boy notices. It was rhythmical, almost timed cautiously for every syllable she speaks, even if there was only twelve spoken. It???s the voice of a poet, he notes; effortless enunciation of drumsticks hitting a snare, the rain tapping against an old pavement. Her voice was music.
???Excuse me???? goes melodically timed voice again, and it snaps the boy back to reality like a punch to the back of the neck.
???Oh, I-I???m sorry, um,??? the boy stammers out, wanting to slap himself at how hoarse his voice sounds compared to the angelic one standing in front of him. He gets out the cup for her order and heads to the end of the counter, pressing the button on the coffee machine and watching the way the vanilla flavored beverage pours itself in.
???H-here,??? comes his cursed shaky voice again, and he nearly faints when her gray, exasperated eyes look up and meet nerve-wrecked hazel ones. The girl finally smiles and takes the cup from him, long fingers wrapping carefully along the edges and brushing just so slightly against his own.
They were ice, the boy decides as he gets a familiar and yet so foreign chill to run down his spine, the hair standing up on the back of his neck. Her fingers were ice; frozen to the bone, smooth as a glazed over lake in the winter. Cold.
She murmurs a ???thank you???, and it???s probably the most beautiful thing the boy has ever heard, so much so that he doesn???t pick up the $1.95 left on the counter until his boss yells at him to pay attention. With a slap in the face back to reality, the boy grabs the money and clumsily returns it to the cash register. He looks up quickly, hoping to get one last glimpse of this beautiful girl, this queen of rain that somehow managed to get a grasp on the heart he never thought he had in just a simple eleven words, seventeen syllables.
But she was gone.
Just like that, she was gone.
And the boy sighs dejectedly, turning to the new, annoyed, and far less interesting customer standing in front of him, taking the order, and falling back into his day to day routine as a skeptic, treating this magnificent girl as a storm that had just blown over, and chose to forget that the encounter had ever happened.
And yet the next day, a sunnier morning than the previous and almost nearly as boring, at 11:05 in the morning, she???s back. This girl, legend of rainy days is back, once again orders a vanilla cappuccino, this time with whipped cream, and smiles her brightest smile of sunshine at the boy, so taken aback by her return.
As the boy looks up from putting the money back into the cash register clumsily, he realizes that this time, she didn???t go. This time, the majestic woman is still standing there.
???What???s your name???? she asks, sounding genuinely intrigued in the life of the boy standing in front of her. The boy, still shocked from seeing her again after being so prepared to forget everything and anything about her, could hardly formulate his response.
???Oh, I-I???m John,??? he stumbles out, never realizing before how difficult it was to recall his own name. The girl, not even fazed by the other???s nerves, smiles once again; shining like there???s nothing else more fascinating than John???s stuttered name. His heart basically stops and he decides right then and there that this girl was going to give him more trouble that even he himself could bring to his life.
???John,??? she said absentmindedly. ???Okay, I???ll remember that.??? She turns, heading once more for the door behind her, ready to walk out of John???s life once again, but this time, he was sure she would return. ???I???ll see you later, John.???
And she did.
Every Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday that John came in to work at that small coffee shop at the end of the road, the girl came in as well. A storm at 11:05 he called it, having no other way to describe their meetings. She was the most precise storm he???d ever met, always arriving at the same time, always ordering the same thing, always leaving the same way; with a smile and a ???Goodbye, John???.
And during these times that they???d meet, John began to learn more and more about her and her lifestyle. He learned that her name was Addie, that she was studying at MICA for a degree in art and that she???d just moved here from Cincinnati a couple of months ago. He learned that she preferred the beautiful subtlety of water colors over the loud anthems of acrylics, that she always ordered a vanilla cappuccino because that was the only coffee she could drink without throwing up. She told him how no matter how hard she tried, she could never paint anything other than the sky; that it fascinated her with the way the colors fluctuated and how the stars changed with the seasons and the clouds made faces back at her. She told him how the sky was painting its own story.
John loved listening to her talk about art the way she did. He had never before heard so much passion in someone???s voice; her voice was soft, but the excitement within it nearly overpowered the words that were coming out of her mouth. Addie had just about sold her soul to the life of an artist, and she was nowhere near regretful at all. For reasons that escaped him, she adored the ability to no longer look at life from the critical standpoint John adorned, but rather from an eye being held up to a kaleidoscope; painting the way the colors dance when the sun hits it and interpreting the story that they told.
It was a beautiful thing, the way she talked. The way she made him feel like he was the only person to be allowed to listen to her, how her words were sacred and should be devoured greedily with every listener.
Needless to say, John got to listen to her talk even more when they decided to take their relationship further than just the guy that gives her coffee. It???s unsure how the decision came about, but soon John and Addie were meeting up more and more often; sometimes outside of other cafes, sometimes in parks, and even occasionally at each other???s own houses.
The meetings went just as previously described; Addie talked, and John was more than compliant to listen.
And Addie, as John had come to realize, liked to talk a lot.
***
???It???s going to rain,??? Addie tells John absentmindedly, finger pointed towards the sky. John looks up, smiling ever so slightly as he watches the dark clouds roll in, the thunder playing drums to welcome a guest of honor???s entrance; the storm.
???So it is,??? was John???s murmur of a response, turning his head back to look at the girl beside him once more. Her chocolate hair was pulled back into a sloppy pony tail, as if she didn???t really care to realize how it was going to look. It slowly fell into her gray eyes as pale hands reached over to pull out the bright red umbrella at her side. It brushed the back of her dark hair and rested ever so slightly against her black leather jacket, and John couldn???t help but marvel at the way the red stood out against the grayscale setting.
Addie shifted, moving to the edge of the curb more smoothly than anyone John had ever witnessed move. Then carefully, one foot in front of the other she stepped across the thin curb, one hand outstretched to balance herself, the other still grasping the fiery umbrella. Addie whipped her head around to look at John, and he just managed to get a glimpse of her excited grin from underneath the red folds. He laughed to himself, not helping but to notice how much Addie enjoyed to act like a child.
???Look!??? Addie cries, laughing as she steps cautiously, carefully along the edge. Her steps seemed to be thoughtfully planned, nearly in time with the drops of precipitation hitting the ground and rolling along the edges of the umbrella in her hands. Her presence commanded attention, John muses, almost in a way that people can???t help but turn around to notice, matching the superiority of the storm rolling in above their heads.
???Addie,??? John speaks suddenly, and the girl???s cloudy eyes switch back to meet his inquisitively. ???What do you think of the rain????
She stops walking, and John can???t decide whether it???s in thought or confusion, but either way it gives him the chance to catch up with her. When she turns around to face him, he comes to the conclusion that the halt of her movement was of the reason of both.
???The rain???? Addie repeats, hoping that by speaking the words herself she would make sense of them. ???What about the rain????
???Well, that???s what I was asking you,??? John says, taking her side once again. ???How do you feel about it????
Addie looks at him for a second, the expression on her face indecipherable. She then turns, facing her head towards the sky and letting the drops hit her forehead and roll down her cheeks and hair. It was a remarkable sight, John thinks, almost entranced by the way the rain drops slide down her skin as if it were glass and not composed of millions and millions of tiny cells, and he is reminded of his childhood, when he used to watch the rain hit the window pane and count the drops that remain upon it.
Shrugging, Addie turns to face forward and continues walking again. ???I don???t know,??? she tells John, ???it???s the rain. It just happens when it happens and it gets kind of annoying when you don???t have an umbrella and you have to deal with the rain drops hitting you in the face.???
John gives a brief laugh at the bluntness of her statement before once again returning to his favorite activity of watching Addie think, act, and talk.
He had never adored just watching someone as much as he does with Addie.
The way she turns her head towards the ground when she is deep in thought, letting her dark hair fall into her face takes his breath away. Her eyes are pools of a storm when she thinks or reads; they flash every so often with a different emotion and they never fail to have that same glimmer that eyes give when a person has an idea. Her eyebrows would furrow, a slight wrinkle formulating at the top of her head and her full lips would remain a simple line, twitching slightly every few minutes.
When she laughs, her entire face scrunches up and it???s almost even more humorous to watch. Her eyes squeeze shut and her cheeks soar upwards. Uplifted like the spirit dwelling within her. Her nose crinkles and her body shakes, and Addie is never one to be foreign to getting tears to her eyes from laughing. Addie never gives a subtle laugh; it always has to be loud and infectious, always managing to echo even when they are in a room filled to the brim with people. They were almost howls or claps that got choked up in her throat, clumsily forced out of her in a way that was so unlike her usual poignant self. Her mouth will stretch wide open and display her rows of slightly crooked teeth and her body would often hunch over from the power of her laughter.
When she???s serious, her voice drops low and soft, almost cold. It???s a bite into a yorkmint patty or the swallowing of an ice cube, depending on the severity of the issue. A lot of the time, most people would think she was angry because her voice was so cold, but John knew better. He knew that it was her way of calming the air in the room and commanding attention to herself.
When she???s happy, her voice nearly raises an entire register. It practically begs to place a smile on everyone else???s face with the way it nearly sings every word Addie speaks. This one is John???s favorite to listen to. The melody her voice has when she???s happy is the melody to play him into a comfortable sleep or to jump up and scream along with at the top of his lungs. Her voice was caramel music, he decides, having no other way to describe it; sweet with every note and word that fell from her pale lips and delectable to the final taste.
John looks once again to Addie, and she???s walking once again along the curb on the road, not paying attention to the many colors of the cars that fly past her vision. Humming the tune to a song he doesn???t recognize under her breath and having abandoned her umbrella, Addie looks up to the sky once again, but this time not in resentment but in glory, as if she were the queen and the sky on a rainy day was her kingdom.
And it???s with that look up at the sky, the sun dipped smile that played itself onto her lips and curled up past her teeth in a way that John had never seen her smile before, it???s with that that John realizes that it???s too late.
He???s fallen for her.
***