cliche?

It isn’t like a cliche. Cliches exist for a reason. It is a cliche. But sometimes they make sense. Sometimes they’re not outdated and redundant. Sometimes they’re not too overdramatized. The rain was pouring down in droves. The droplets were so loud, he had to turn the volume up by five points to be able to listen to the music in the car. He hadn’t listened to the song that he looked up as he drove, admittedly dangerously, with his eyes on the phone, typing with one hand on his phone, another on the wheel, eyes down, darting up. But not enough. As if there were ever enough.

And this is where the cliche came into play.

It had been at least half a decade since he had heard this song.

When he first listened to it, it had been while he’d been sitting at the krusty sofa in his first dorm, lounging as the night drew ever darker, and got ever older. Across from him, on the other sofa sat his friend. They were talking. His best friend in this new place. The vending machine glowed with the bright light from within as the night made its way over and across the continent.

The rain kept hitting his windshield. He put the wipers on maximum rotation and drove on. The song kept playing on repeat.

It was raining in the city that had been his home for the seven years prior to this one. It had been raining, and he had raised his head to the sky and soaked it all in. His hair was becoming matted with the water. His glasses were flooding. He removed them, hung them on his shirt, raised his arms, and embraced the sky.

The rain was violent. There were some boys playing on the main road. The flooding was so severe that if they went under the water, they would be completely hidden. You would not see them, and you might hit them. He kept his car behind another.

He had been walking in the village. There was a gap store right by him. It was all so new and alien. Everything was. Especially the freedom. No judgement, no jailers glances, no rules, no limitations. Here, he was free.

He kept his forearm on the wheel, looking out with unusual interest. So much water. Everywhere.

He had been at a candlelit dinner date. He’d bought her flowers, dressed in a suit, the whole shabang. He was drinking too much water. He was nervous. It wouldn’t work out. He’d also done way too much, it seemed to her, for a first date. But he wouldn’t give up the memory of having fulfilled his desire to go overboard on a date.

He was on the bridge. Even here, splashes formed as the wheels chugged through the water. How poorly did one have to design a city so that bridges would flood?!

He was at a chipotle. This was one he hadn’t been to. More downtown. It was nice. Dim. But nice.

He had explored, not quite to his heart’s content. But he was happy.