It rained. Water thrummed against the apartment windows. It ran in rivulets down the street and sidewalk. In the park it drew concentric circles on the ponds, sent animals and people running for cover. The runoff snagged candy wrappers and cigarette butts, a sock, a sneaker, a Frisbee, and swept them into the storm drains. The larger trash stuck in the grates; the smaller bits and pieces were sucked down into the rushing underground torrents of the New York City sewer system fed by the drains and culverts. The river of rainwater and trash caromed into the East River, under the bridges, into the harbor, out past the Statue of Liberty into the vast, night-blackened Atlantic. There were no stars, no moon.
Out at the airport, all of the flights in and out of JFK were on time. It was only rain; it was the wind that played havoc with timetables and schedules and getting from point A to point B. There was no wind that night—probably still napping—just water, washing the city until it sparkled. Walkers admired their reflections in the puddles and commented on the freshness of the air.
“Innocent,” the rain told the city. “Even if just for tonight. You’re pure and innocent and clean.”