A Concert in the Rain

The outdoor concert was supposed to be canceled. The forecast said thunderstorms. My friend Lena and I went anyway, with ponchos, because the band was from our hometown.

The rain started during the second song and never stopped. Maybe two hundred people stayed, soaked to the skin, dancing in the mud. The singer laughed and said, "Well, you're my kind of people," and played for an extra forty-five minutes.

At one point he jumped off the stage and sang in the middle of the crowd, completely drenched. Lena grabbed my arm and screamed. Strangers were hugging. Someone's grandmother was doing the twist.

We drove home with the heater blasting, muddy to the knees, singing every song in the wrong key. My shoes were never the same. I've never had a better night.