Monsoon is here and there’s nothing I’d rather do than curl up underneath the softest soybean quilt I can find, make myself a cup of hot cocoa and watch reruns of Sex and the City.
I’ve never been a fan of the rains. I can’t stand getting wet in it. And I never could relate to authors writing about how romantic this season is and how absolutely amazing kissing in the pouring rain is.
Monsoon is a depressing season. I hate how absolutely quiet it suddenly gets, how the sky is downcast and grey instead of its usual magnificent blue dotted with white cotton candy clouds. I miss sunshine, beautiful, joyful sunshine. I hate how the earth’s now permanently wet and slushy, how my clothes take forever to dry, how I can no longer step out with just my wallet and phone, now I’ve to carry an annoying umbrella which is a wet nuisance.
Most of all, I hate how this season reminds me of you, of how we’d light a marlboro and complain about how much we hate the rain, how we’d spend chilly nights wrapped in each other under your ridiculously thick quilt, how you’d make me your signature coffee and I’d settle in your lap and we’d stay that way for hours, talking about nihilism, Marquez and Bukowski.
The rains bring me memories of you and they’re bittersweet.