Standing around the practice space last night as the sun went down, sipping drinks out of cans and plastic cups, we told each other lies about the weather.
"It's not as hot as it has been!"
"Feel that breeze?"
"I'm pretty sure it's cooling off some, what do you think?"
Until it turned out to be the truth, and suddenly the wind kicked up some and bright lightning flashed in the purple-black grey clouds that came crawling across the sky. Between songs, the lead singer asked us, "What are y'all all looking up at?" He couldn't see it from inside the storage space, but we sure could. Staring up at it, thunder lost in a double bass beat, smooth-bottomed force of nature come to wash us clean.
Next thing you know, we're getting hit with those fat Florida raindrops, like getting pelted with acorns or pebbles that splash when they land. Wet dust smell jumped up off the asphalt. We protected our beers but not our heads, letting the storm wash off a heat wave's worth of sweat and exhaustion. The driveway between rows became a still river, soaking your shoes and pants' legs before you even realized you'd stepped into the water.
Man, we needed that.