The fleeting beauty of a too-long moment

It was pouring outside. I don't mean "it was raining." I mean pouring, "raining cats and dogs" as they say.

Some were smart and had brought umbrellas. They, the people who say things about the weather, they had been saying for several days it was going to rain. And these smart people had listened.

Others, perhaps shortsighted, perhaps isolated from weather reports and from people who look at weather reports and then tell everyone, perhaps poor, perhaps rebellious, they did not have umbrellas. Of these, some ran, maybe with a newspaper or just a hand sheilding them from the deluge. Others took it like men (and women) and pretended themselves dry.

I looked down at the dripping black umbrella by my feet, the kind that opens and closes by pressing a button, and wondered who these people were who ran and walked unprotected in the rain. At first I thought that the people who walked were the rebel faction of the Umbrellaless. Then, I thought perhaps the rebels were the running ones. Maybe they just enjoyed running through and away from the rain.

I shivered from the excessive air conditioning in Peet's Coffee and Tea. It was as if, simply because it was summer, the managers thought it would be hot out. Must be new to New England. Seasons mean nothing.

Across the street, the Coolidge stood out clad in neon blue and pink, period costume. The Coolidge was a great theater, like the Three Penny or the Music Box in Chicago. They were next to Upper Crust, some really great pizza. And they were across from the Brookline Booksmith, one of those few indie bookstores left.

Peet's, even, wasn't bad. It wasn't Starbuck's at least, though it was half a block down from a Starbuck's. It was still corporate. But the people were friendly, and the store wasn't designed like some hippie's breakfast nook. So, when I could find a seat, I would do my best to make a cup last a couple hours.

A girl walked by in a flowing dress or skirt. The movement caught my eye and I looked up for a moment. The fabric moved fluidly, rhythmically, beautifully, perfectly. It harmonized with her movement and I understood the beauty of dance. Then, looking at it a moment longer: the spell is broken. Now, the hem is kicked violently by her legs, the fabric seems attached to the calves. If I had looked a moment later, I would have missed the beauty of such a simple thing as a flutter of fabric. If I had stopped looking a moment earlier, that beauty would have remained unblemished.