Gray and Grey

Rainy days demand respect. They demand that you drink hot chocolate on a couch, and that you listen to The Cure, or to Billie Holiday, if you will, and that you look through old photo albums. They demand a bittersweet nostalgia, a slow urgency, watching the trees grow greener against the gray. They demand that you think of your tiny cold fingers, paler than usual, and that you wonder whatever happened to your favorite charcoal black overcoat that you used to have.

I asked my friend Analisa about it -- she's a raincloud, you see -- and she sighed, annoyed.

"Yes," she said, "and it makes us mad when people are insensitive about it. I mean, I think it's reasonable for a raincloud to expect simple courtesies like hot chocolate and The Cure."

We shared an awkward grey romantic moment of silence together.

"I'm sorry," she added as she calmed, "I'm not annoyed at you about this. I'm just annoyed when people ignore me."

Rainy days demand respect.