By Aarav Kumar
I could have died for an umbrella.
Raindrops landed and formed queues on stray strands of hair, and then trickled down a face clouded by anxiety. Howling gusts of wind captured me in their cold snare, rooting me to my position. I felt a chill run up my spine; the slender fingers of a phantom were slinking across my shoulders, trying to pull me into the darkness. But my inner skeptic shrugged it off; ghosts are for children. The dimly lit façades of innumerable, seemingly deserted skyscrapers lined my way; I'd have savoured the royal feeling had it not been for the downpour. Suddenly, I heard a broken, low-pitched scream across the block.
I stopped.
Never mind, just a very loud motorcycle.
I walked on. No time could be lost; it was dark, and everyone knew how dangerous it was in the dark. Yet, for all my urgency, I couldn’t help but occasionally freeze in the middle of the road to soak in the rhythmic pitter-patter of the rain, interspersed with the honk of a far-off car.
I took a sharp turn and emerged onto the main square. The Crocs were digging into my heels.
Sigh; if only I’d been in time for the 9 o' clock bus.
The fountain in the centre was pearly white, with hideous gargoyles carved into the main column. It was only barely visible under the curtain of black, but occasionally, a dim, flickering streetlamp would illuminate it in an eerie glow. The gargoyles were well-made, but that night, they looked alive- prepared to break free from their marble cysts, and embrace their demon overlords gathering in the sky.
The stinging sensation in my heel was getting worse; I really should not have worn Crocs. A little rest would’ve been nice, but the silhouettes on the bench, the contours of their face hidden by hoodies, did not look like welcoming company. I decided to take the longer route across the garden. The wet mud released an oddly satisfying odour. If I had been on time, I would’ve strolled around longer.
Oh well, the smell of fresh, home-cooked lasagna was more appealing.
The rain was getting worse. I began running; home was barely a block away- I'd make it soon, damn the Crocs, and damn the pain. My eyes locked in on the warm yellow light emanating from the apartment. I might’ve shoved a few passers-by aside in my entrancement. They shot angry glances at me from under their polka-dot umbrellas, blissfully unaware of the pain of a man without anything to shield him from nature’s watery fury.
I never knew a bell-shaped piece of canvas could be so philosophical a thing.
I slammed the door behind me, shrugged off the soaking jacket and the Crocs, and trudged towards the kitchen. There it was- the lasagna. The spoon pierced through the sheets of pasta, unleashing a flood of cheese and vegetables. But there was no smell of lasagna now, only of an earthy petrichor.
By Aarav Kumar
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