You Dancing in The Rain

That afternoon, the smell of rain hang in the air. It was like the damp smell of soil, as if already wet from anticipation. Soon enough it rained; drizzle at first, but quickly gaining momentum, racing down to the ground. The splatters were getting louder.
I peered through the narrow window while in front the continuous beads of water trickled down, forming a kind of screen. I was in a daze. The downpour never failed to amaze. Like sheets of some strange fabric being rolled down from the sky. Every droplet is different, but somehow they are connected, united in purpose.
Then you appeared. Running in the middle of the incessant watery air strike, arms flailing, head held up high. You were also in another kind of race. If the droplets' goal is the ground, what was yours? I wanted to ask you that. To capture as many droplets as possible? To savour the sensations of the pricks on and trickles of the droplets on your skin?
You tossed the beads of water up with your hands. In mysterious gestures, the beads danced, shone like pearls, bobbing up and down around you. No, you were the dancer, the beads merely followed along, as if enthralled by the beauty of your movement, defying gravity, coming under your bidding.
You suddenly stopped. Arms stretched out, head facing up the sky. You let the shower come upon you, trickling down your bodily nooks and crannies. Your eyes were closed, as if meditating, tracing the trail of water, the lingering sensation of the vestiges, quickly renewed, the coolness seeped again, soaking you with ever-continuing freshness.
Such performance, such grace. You started running again. Going out of view. The rain still struck with the same ferocity. Suddenly the wind was blowing gentler. The curtains of water were closing off. Curtain call.