“The Sound of Rain”

 “I think,” said Gerry, “we were talking about being boring.”

“Ah, yes,” said Araminta, “and being aware of whether one is boring or not.”

“Yes, knowing when you’re starting to put your audience to sleep.”

“Or being aware that they’ve already fallen asleep.”

“Now I’m going to be afraid to say a word.”

“Oh, please don’t be, Gerry,” said Araminta. “I’ll tell you what. Because I consider us to be friends, I shall make a deal with you. If you ever start to get boring, I will tell you.”

“Thank you, Araminta,” said Gerry. “I would appreciate that.”

“And you, too, Gerry, you must stop me if I run on too tediously.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Oh, but that’s not fair.”

“But you see, Araminta, that even if – and please note my use of that all-important conjunction ‘if’ –”

“Is ‘if’ a conjunction?”

“I have no idea.”

“Me neither, but do go on, Gerry.”

“What was I saying?”

“’If’ something.”

“If, if – I’ve completely lost my thread now. I wonder if it was an interesting one?”

“Oh, I’m sure it was.”

“If. Oh, now I remember. Even if I felt myself slightly bored by something you were saying, the thing is I wouldn’t mind.”

“You wouldn’t mind being bored?”

“No, because I enjoy being in your company, and hearing you talk.”

“Even if I’m talking nonsense?”

“Yes. How can I explain?”

“Please try.”

“It’s like the sound of rain. It’s very pleasant, isn’t it?”

“I love the sound of rain.”

“Me too. Sometimes I sit in my humble digs at my writing table for an hour or more, doing nothing but staring at a blank page and listening to the rain.”

“And then after an hour do you write something?”

“Sometimes. But if I don’t it doesn’t bother me. I think that one of the great tricks of writing is knowing when not to write. Which, in my case, is probably about twenty-three hours and thirty-seven minutes of an average day.”

“Ha ha. And so you’re saying my babbling is like the sound of rain?”

Gerry paused, but only briefly to take a sip of his Rheingold, which he had surprisingly been forgetting to drink.

“Yes,” he said, “To me your voice is like the sound of the rain.”

“That’s so nice.”

Now both Gerry and Araminta fell silent, although all around them people laughed and chattered, and a woman sang on the jukebox, “Autumn in New York…”

“The angel passed again,” said Araminta.

“Yes, briefly,” said Gerry.

“If you were twenty years younger,” said Araminta, “or, dash it all, even fifteen years younger.”

“Alas, I am not,” said Gerry.

“Or maybe not alas,” said Araminta.

“Yes, maybe not,” said Gerry, who was, after all, a philosopher.




{Please go here to read the “adult comix” version in A Flophouse Is Not a Home, illustrated by the illustrious rhoda penmarq, who informs me that this is our 100th story in this series! Thanks to all who have read them…}