In the summer of the summer in your summer, it is pouring.
Drops clack, bounce back, push themselves into puddles,
as if, they too, are surprised by the force of their arrival.
You wear plain rained gray and dripping denim. High waist, shoes laced, squirting and squeaking with every step. Humid heat and sweaty stench.
You breathe in through your nose and choke. You’re soaked, it doesn’t matter. Surrender and wave with the weather.
Signs on both sides of the street boast about booze and boat trips. Printed photos show the trained cormorants in the karst mountains, diving for crucian carp, or maybe catfish.
You’d wanted to escape the hostel, where travellers exchanged unsolicited advice on crossing borders, being broke.
Alone is so free. No one to take into account, no one to please. Breakfast on your own is a milestone. At home, you are often catered for, or maybe catered to.
Who cares.
He is standing to the side of the road, seeking shelter under a plastic sheet he holds up with both arms. You are shy, not the type to walk up to anyone, but now you’ve turned your body and you’re striding in a straight line and not sure what to say.
You’re hesitant. No magical attraction, like in stories on first sight. Still, you stride, not because of wanting or will or any of those myths, but because you see no other option.