Whether the weather will wither

It's balls hot in here. You know what they say, and you know the guy who says it too, salt and pepper beard on that recent retiree with too short shorts and a bit of a belly and big smile and he laughs knowingly, "It's not the heat, it's the humidity."

It starts to rain outside and there are cool breezes whispering through my window, telling me inaudible secrets, but they don't stay long, they can't stay to play and then my room is muggy and buggy again. So screw this I head outside passing my parents in the living room talking about Robert Kennedy; where was he killed again?

Outside the view is cinematic. The composition and the lighting and the framing are all perfect; some one has gone to great trouble for the this shot, framed on one side by the neighbour's imposing house and on the other by the porch column (doric or ionic, iconic or ironic?) and I am looking down because my house is on a hill from the street. Everything is wet of course, slick and with a shine and there is a white Volkswagen Beetle underneath a street lamp that is making the whole street look like it was lifted off Hollywood back lot. The sky is that dark, muddy pink of city nights and the street light is filtering through thick spring foliage. The rain picks up speed, reaches a crescendo, the cymbals burst and the trumpets flare and then the rain recedes and then another crescendo, another peak, responding to the unseen commands of a master conductor.

A car drives up the street, slowly, mindful of speedbumps and poor weather conditions and the headlights illuminate the road, reavealing the constant ratatat the bombards the pavement. It's just rain, nothing special. It's always raining some where and somewhere kids always running through it and somewhere Gene Kelly is always dancing singing through it. Anyway. I need an air conditioner.