The “Rain Phenomenon” baffled scientists. They clamored over each other with their theories. They listed their credentials in all-too-earnest videos that
splashed across the internet, lingering for a moment only to be forgotten within days, their efforts futile. Despite the best work of the top minds, the rain continued.

According to the newspapers, the root cause was either climate change or the wrath of God Almighty. According to the tabloids, it was the work of a newly-arrived race of cosmic extraterrestrials that inadvertently disturbed Earth’s delicate ecosystem. Whatever the cause, the rain continued, oblivious to all principles and piety, and there was no escape from the dark damp.

People shuddered at the touch of their loved ones’ clammy hands. Papers wilted, and pelting droplets tore flowers from vines. School attendance began
to suffer, as did job performance, but the days went on and so did we.

Some found ways to profit from the change in weather. A luxury Italian brand marketed waterproof acrylic handbags that cost more than an in-season rental on the Amalfi coast. Fast fashion soon followed suit, peddling more attainable options. A resort in St. Barths constructed a plexiglass dome
that encompassed three acres of beach. They hung garish sun lamps from the ceiling, and models soon crowded beneath it, their tech-rich boyfriends in
tow. They flaunted boozy cocktails and artificial tans.

For most of us, life just got a little harder. A little sadder. The days run together in a daze of inconvenience and canceled plans. When I drive home, hypervigilant in the often-blinding rain, I try to ignore the fact that my four-year-old is about to outgrow yet another pair of rainboots. At first, stomping in puddles was a novelty, his rosy cheeks bright against a grey expanse of sky. Now, he cries each afternoon as we drive by the playground down the block from our house. Rain streams down his favorite red spiral slide so that it looks almost purple beneath the rushing water. From the front seat, I do
my best to console him.

“Maybe tomorrow,” I say each day. “Maybe tomorrow.”

Corinne Cordasco-Pak lives in Atlanta, Georgia. A copywriter and content strategist by trade, she has recently begun to focus her efforts on fiction. Follow her on Twitter for infrequent updates about her writing or on Instagram for frequent updates about her dogs: @CECordasco.

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