As though we have the monopoly on the weather, and whether we deserve it or not is only slightly irrelevant, as though only we can define what this misting precipitation means.

'Rain, then. Let's call it rain.'

He keeps trying to call it something else, it is never anything but rain to me. And even this, this single syllable word, this is inadequate too, but still, it is honest.

'Rain is a good word... we should be like the Eskimos, 24 words to describe our lunacy.'

'Although twenty-four words wouldn't be enough, still, I doubt rain and an endless string of adjectives will ever be enough for me either. '

'How are we supposed to explain this to them?'

He grins, and there are a thousand little droplets clustered in his hairs. How indeed? I duck my head and we pick up the pace, our pounding feet staking claim to the damp sinuous streets.

Node title shamelessly from somewhere in The World I Made For Her, chapter one. Well, not so shamelessly. And I rephrased it slightly. But still, you should know.

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