It begins with a drop. Then a long, very long pause.

The urban Summer rain feels unexpected. You feel it to be a bit more wet in the skin, compared to that predictable winter rain which hits your umbrella first; then your rainproof jacket, then maybe, just maybe, a patch of skin. Tameable, even second nature.

But not the urban Summer rain. It hits your exposed, unready skin — immediately breaking thoughts about the paths of life, about love, what to have for dinner. It hits us most gently, bringing with it that smell of summer freshness that we trace back to our childhood memories, even though we never know where from, exactly. A sensorial alarm clock disguised as a natural phenomenon.

It makes us look at the empty wooden bench in the park with desireful eyes. We could have been sitting there, reading a book. Oh, how great it would be if I could sit there right now, reading a book. But not now, of course, because it’s going to be soaking wet soon.

Some other time, maybe.