They say this has been a dry, hot summer for Baltimore. Temperatures have reached 90 most days here and I believe them. My room is cool, but when I crack my window to slip out onto my fire escape I quickly find myself shedding layers and holding still as possible, pressed down by the damp heat.



This morning I woke up to the breathing of rain. I had to listen, half sitting up, to know it was there. The house felt as though it’d been wrapped around by the falling water, holding the sleepers in.

This morning I moved quietly through brushing my teeth and rolling the cuff of my jeans, through cutting up a peach and rustling through the first pages of a new book. Rain keeps noises closer to their source. I didn’t hear my housemate in the kitchen until she unwrapped a granola bar. Three of us had plans to go to the farmers market today. There is something about leaving a house in the morning to go into the rain. There’s a deep pause at the door, the wrestling with the umbrella, and a breaking out that seals the warm dryness in behind. We dressed for the wet and wandered through the slantways rain, finding people reusable bags tucked under their arms to follow. I counted umbrellas and breathed in the cleanness.