Montrose in the Rain

Rain falls without hurry, as if Montrose needed rinsing after August. Neon turns to fish in the puddles; bougainvillea combs itself downward. You walk Westheimer with your jacket unbuttoned and your phone put away: there’s no rush to arrive—only to remain.

Cafés fog their windows; inside, cups ring like small bells. A bright mural drips slowly, sending little rivers to the curb. A kid on a skateboard crosses like the city already belongs to him; a woman in red boots counts steps between umbrellas as if she were keeping time.

It smells like bread, clean rain, gasoline freshly confessed. A cat hides under a closed patio table. You stop at the corner—green, then red, then green again—and for the first time in days you don’t mind. The rain adds a layer to everything—less noise, more rhythm.

You think about the messages you didn’t answer, the call you didn’t make, the ache that returns when the sky clears. Here, now, it aches less: the street adopts you for a while. Somewhere down the block, someone laughs without apologizing. You slip into a café just to watch the water from the inside; you order something hot you won’t finish.

The barista writes your name without asking how to spell it. Behind you, a couple shares an umbrella too small, and somehow it’s enough. Outside, a car throws a fan of spray and for a second you’re soaked in the right nostalgia—the kind that doesn’t wound, that simply confirms you were here.

When it lightens, you step back out. Montrose stays wet, gleaming, more honest. You walk without a map, following the lights doubled on the pavement, until the city returns you home with heavy laces and—finally—light heart.