by Lawrence Raab

    Because so much consequential¹ thinking

    happens in the rain. A steady mist

    to recall departures， a bitter downpour

    for betrayal. As if the first thing

    a man wants to do when he learns his wife

    is sleeping with his best friend， and has been

    for years， the very first thing

    is not to make a drink， and drink it，

    and make another， but to walk outside

    into bad weather. It's true

    that the way we look doesn't always

    reveal our feelings. Which is a problem

    for the movies. And why somebody has to smash

    a mirror， for example， to show he's angry

    and full of self-hate， whereas actual people

    rarely do this. And rarely sit on benches

    in the pouring rain to weep. Is he wondering

    why he didn't see it long ago？ Is he wondering

    if in fact he did， and lied to himself？

    And perhaps she also saw the many ways

    he'd allowed himself to be deceived. In this city

    it will rain all night. So the three of them

    return to their houses， and the wife

    and her lover go upstairs to bed

    while the husband takes a small black pistol

    from a drawer， turns it over in his hands，

    then puts it back. Thus demonstrating

    his inability to respond to passion

    with passion. But we don't want him

    to shoot his wife， or his friend， or himself.

    And we've begun to suspect

    that none of this is going to work out，

    that we'll leave the theater feeling

    vaguely² cheated， just as the movie，

    turning away from the husband's sorrow，

    leaves him to be a man who must continue，

    day after day， to walk outside into the rain，

    outside and back again， since now there can be

    nowhere in this world for him to rest.

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