Waiting for the Rain was playing in the restaurant; a rich fusion of flugelhorns, guitars and congas rippling out across a sea of conversation.
Waiting for the RainI don’t know why I remembered that so clearly, long after the fact. Perhaps it was the irony; no one there was waiting for anything. The pavements outside were slick from the downpour; beyond the misted windows, cascading torrents pooled on the corners, carrying cigarette ends on dirty tides that ran along overflowing gutters and rapidly-filling drains. A woman was struggling to unfold her umbrella beneath the awning of the bistro across the street. I watched the traffic rolling by; taxis weaving in and out of the bottlenecks, windscreen wipers raging, a blend of angry headlamps and mud-splashed hubcaps struggling to navigate t
