Yesterday, {none} G
title: Yesterday
author: anamuan
fandom: none
word-count: 818
rating: G
The air was still hot, and stuck to the skin where it touched it, but it wasn't stifling anymore, not since the wind had picked up. The heat and humidity had hung on the air all day, unmoving, hot to the point that breathing was tiring, where it seemed to press on your face and skin like a wool blanket, heavy and smothering. But now a hard little breeze had set the leaves stirring, flapping up and showing their pale green bellies. It wasn't a cool wind, just as hot and moist as the rest of the air all day, but it was moving and that was enough.
Thunder cracked low over the hills, bouncing and echoing so a person couldn't tell which direction it came from, but that didn't really matter to Ann. No lightning or she'd count, but her lips quirked up into a grin; it was close.
"Hey. A storm's coming." More thunder rumbled overhead, closer than the last; and then like tv static, like the ocean roaring through rocks, they could hear the edge of the rainfall driving closer, sweeping across front yards and streets to meet them. "Wanna go play?" Her eyes sparkled with anticipation, making her look younger than her 22 years, a twelve-year-old talking about tree forts and adventures climbing up mountains. Her sister, Jen looking up from her cell phone, suddenly seemed older than 18--older certainly than the 22-cum-12-year-old grinning at her slyly--and for a second Ann thought she'd refuse, say no and turn her face back down, shutting Ann out and shooting down the chance to revive childhood adventures in exchange for grown-up concerns like internships and college.
But then Jen stood up, dropping the phone on the couch behind her. "Well. As long as it's a warm rain," she said with a smile of her own.
They huddled on the front porch, watching the world through sheets of water, wearing flip-flops because adults know better than to wear the kind of shoes that would only soak up the water; still in all their clothes, because kids don't plan ahead to sopping jeans and soaking underwear. Inhale, almost in tandem, like they were preparing for diving into deep water instead of walking into a rainstorm, they stepped out, holding their heads down to protect their glasses from the water.
"It's totally not a warm rain!" they laughed back and forth, but neither stopped or tried to go back inside, or thought about stopping. They rushed over to the driveway, where water ran in a stream to the street, and splashed up and down its length, before wading into the miniature river coursing down the sidewalk. It never used to run that way until the city came in and put down curbs; now the curb, 4 years old, directed the water's flow and kept from soaking away into the grass, roiling and yellow like the Big Muddy or the Huang He in miniature crossing the street.
Water soaked through Ann's hair, streaming down her bangs to pour over her face. Jen jumped in delighted circles through puddles, wet clothes sticking and pulling. They both saw the water-spout at the same time, shooting run-off into the air--just the gutter transformed by magic or a thunderstorm into a fountain, or a tiny waterfall, or the Amazon River.
They played in the rain another ten minutes or another four hours, clothes soaked and heavy, water rushing over their feet, while they spun their own enchantments from the childish desire to enjoy the moment until the moment wasn't fun anymore. Finally Jen turned, glasses covered in water-drops and fog. "It's really not a warm rain," she said, shivered; and Ann finally felt the goosebumps on her own arms, skin cool and wet. Hair plastered to her face by running water and almost tickled, she slung an arm over her sister's wet shoulders. "Let's go back inside," she grinned, and they swam back up the sidewalk-river and jumped like spawning salmon to climb the driveway-stream.
Jen, thinking of dry clothes and warm air, pulled ahead when they came in sight of the back porch; Ann lagged behind, reluctant to let the magic go so soon.
"Wait," she called, and Jen turned to look. Ann had her glasses off, tucked into the front of her shirt. Ann turned her face up to the clouds and stretched her dripping arms out towards heaven. "Our glasses are all wet anyway," she said by way of explanation. Jen raised her own arms, lifted her own face up to see, feel the rain.
"Take your glasses off. It's better that way."
Jen did. Closing her eyes and feeling the rain for the first time that day not as a blanket of water, but each individual drop as it hit her cheeks, her forehead, her hands. "It is," she agreed and they stood smiling up into the rain.
author: anamuan
fandom: none
word-count: 818
rating: G
The air was still hot, and stuck to the skin where it touched it, but it wasn't stifling anymore, not since the wind had picked up. The heat and humidity had hung on the air all day, unmoving, hot to the point that breathing was tiring, where it seemed to press on your face and skin like a wool blanket, heavy and smothering. But now a hard little breeze had set the leaves stirring, flapping up and showing their pale green bellies. It wasn't a cool wind, just as hot and moist as the rest of the air all day, but it was moving and that was enough.
Thunder cracked low over the hills, bouncing and echoing so a person couldn't tell which direction it came from, but that didn't really matter to Ann. No lightning or she'd count, but her lips quirked up into a grin; it was close.
"Hey. A storm's coming." More thunder rumbled overhead, closer than the last; and then like tv static, like the ocean roaring through rocks, they could hear the edge of the rainfall driving closer, sweeping across front yards and streets to meet them. "Wanna go play?" Her eyes sparkled with anticipation, making her look younger than her 22 years, a twelve-year-old talking about tree forts and adventures climbing up mountains. Her sister, Jen looking up from her cell phone, suddenly seemed older than 18--older certainly than the 22-cum-12-year-old grinning at her slyly--and for a second Ann thought she'd refuse, say no and turn her face back down, shutting Ann out and shooting down the chance to revive childhood adventures in exchange for grown-up concerns like internships and college.
But then Jen stood up, dropping the phone on the couch behind her. "Well. As long as it's a warm rain," she said with a smile of her own.
They huddled on the front porch, watching the world through sheets of water, wearing flip-flops because adults know better than to wear the kind of shoes that would only soak up the water; still in all their clothes, because kids don't plan ahead to sopping jeans and soaking underwear. Inhale, almost in tandem, like they were preparing for diving into deep water instead of walking into a rainstorm, they stepped out, holding their heads down to protect their glasses from the water.
"It's totally not a warm rain!" they laughed back and forth, but neither stopped or tried to go back inside, or thought about stopping. They rushed over to the driveway, where water ran in a stream to the street, and splashed up and down its length, before wading into the miniature river coursing down the sidewalk. It never used to run that way until the city came in and put down curbs; now the curb, 4 years old, directed the water's flow and kept from soaking away into the grass, roiling and yellow like the Big Muddy or the Huang He in miniature crossing the street.
Water soaked through Ann's hair, streaming down her bangs to pour over her face. Jen jumped in delighted circles through puddles, wet clothes sticking and pulling. They both saw the water-spout at the same time, shooting run-off into the air--just the gutter transformed by magic or a thunderstorm into a fountain, or a tiny waterfall, or the Amazon River.
They played in the rain another ten minutes or another four hours, clothes soaked and heavy, water rushing over their feet, while they spun their own enchantments from the childish desire to enjoy the moment until the moment wasn't fun anymore. Finally Jen turned, glasses covered in water-drops and fog. "It's really not a warm rain," she said, shivered; and Ann finally felt the goosebumps on her own arms, skin cool and wet. Hair plastered to her face by running water and almost tickled, she slung an arm over her sister's wet shoulders. "Let's go back inside," she grinned, and they swam back up the sidewalk-river and jumped like spawning salmon to climb the driveway-stream.
Jen, thinking of dry clothes and warm air, pulled ahead when they came in sight of the back porch; Ann lagged behind, reluctant to let the magic go so soon.
"Wait," she called, and Jen turned to look. Ann had her glasses off, tucked into the front of her shirt. Ann turned her face up to the clouds and stretched her dripping arms out towards heaven. "Our glasses are all wet anyway," she said by way of explanation. Jen raised her own arms, lifted her own face up to see, feel the rain.
"Take your glasses off. It's better that way."
Jen did. Closing her eyes and feeling the rain for the first time that day not as a blanket of water, but each individual drop as it hit her cheeks, her forehead, her hands. "It is," she agreed and they stood smiling up into the rain.