Some days he is thunder. And some days he is rain. Thunder more than rain. There are days when he rumbles, when the echoes send tremors through her very being. And then comes rain, unexpected. The torrents wash over her and set her free. Her world is happiest in those misty, sepia toned evenings. Now, she waits, her soul parched. For there has neither been rain nor thunder. It doesn't occur to her even for a moment that her season of glory has ended, that she might never know another one like that. And so she waits, waits, waits. There is no tragedy quite like love that believes in the impossible.