Last night's rain came so suddenly, as if the sky could no longer contain the emotions it had repressed for so long, pouring the sticky heat of the past few days straight into the sewer. I leaned against the window watching the streetlights, each one piercing the steaming asphalt, releasing a white mist tinged with the smell of rust.

Is this a pairing for wine or dishes? This question reminds me of the green stone jar in the well of the old house. When I was a child, after heavy rains, my father would always scoop half a ladle of rainwater, mix it with three-year-old plum wine, and eat pickled cucumbers made by the old lady next door while drinking. He said the rainwater is the cold brew tea from the heavens, and it should be consumed before it touches the ground, so that one can taste the flavor of the clouds.

Right now, there is only half a can of craft beer and last week's leftovers in my fridge. The late-night choices of modern people are always so meager; we either numb our nerves with alcohol or burden our stomachs to keep going. In fact, the best match for a stormy night should be insomnia, listening to the rhythmic ticking sound of the wipers, taking out the moldy old memories one by one to air them out, those regrets that have been steamed and blurred by the heat are now unfolding into clear shapes in the rain.

The rain has stopped, and the puddles reflect the fragmented moon, like lemon slices floating in a spilled glass of whiskey. I suddenly understand my grandfather; what he was waiting for was never the liquor or the food, but rather this moment in time that could finally be savored after the rain has softened the world.
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