Outside the eleven-story window, the city nestles against the hills. The favelas in the distance cut against the large buildings. A late afternoon breeze fills the apartment with the smell of rain. The air conditioning breaks the humidity on the threshold of the windowpane. The first pitter-patter of rain drops on the plastic covering above the window, protecting the drying clothes underneath it.

The drops are loud and the pace builds to a gradual downpour. Outside the window, liquid sweeps across the city in gray blankets against mismatched earth toned roof tiles. The breast pocket of my beige bomber jacket bulges as I jangle the keys. The keys, cut last month like all keys in Latin America with crude spidering edges, clank as they lock the door.

To the left, an old elevator rattles to life with a press of its small brownish buttons that illuminate faint yellow. The rattle cage finds its way to my floor and the scissor gate collapses. No one is inside; the dusty ceiling met the 3-mirrored walls and the scissor beginning. The 1 glows soft white and the elevator descends, a lurch towards the bottom. The numbers pass before the small window near the scissor door lets light into the elevator from the halls. A small bump and the elevator halts while the scissor releases. A woman in the hall with a small dog whispers to him, “Vai, Batman, Vai” and I laugh at the name familiar at home with tights and costumes and villains. Bom dia I greet her and she returns it and I smile at the bellman. Another Bom dia and I’m through the door out to the exterior awning.

Wet sheets fell and swept the street. Some heavenly being holding the hose down and pinching it, kinking the line and letting it halt for a moment in rhythmic prolonged swoosh followed by a short slap. The sheets fell in unison on taxis packed with passengers. My destination isn’t far, only 3 blocks from the entrance of the apartment and I head off in the correct direction.

Both hands in pockets on either side of the jacket, I pinch them closed and keep my head down. My back was the first to become soaked, the light beige darkening towards a mud color. It began to soak through to my red shirt. At first, it dripped on the back of my neck, and then the top of my head started to run with water. The drops slid down my face when I lifted my eyes to see the street signs.

The homeless are dry under the long awnings near the Praças. My shoes slap with loud wet sloppy steps as I pass from awning to awning. A digital clock that reads 14:30 doubles my stride. I jumped the slow emerging river near the gutter into the street. The socks I wore squished in my shoes. My jeans became wet on the backs of the calves, then joined at the ankle and crept under the thighs.  A hunched back kept a ring of dry beige on my chest.

A block away, the destination pushes my pace to a jog over the cobblestoned surface. The mix-matched stones juxtaposed to a pooling body of water. In it, a small yellow and green plastic flag rests half submerged. The blue globe in the middle half against the rain and half against the street. The taxi from my right swerves and a large puddle rises from the tire. My hands shoot out from my pockets and I straighten my chest, bending my hips towards the wall. The car rolls forward as cascading water crashes only on stone. The rain spoils my last remaining area of dryness. Inside the jacket, the letter is dry to the touch, but the breast pocket is damp. Four steps more and the door is in reach.

Something is different today about the door, though. The light is off and the door is dark and there aren’t any people checking for mail. An unfamiliar Portuguese word dangles on a string in the window. I tilt my head back, the windows reflecting the gathering clouds. My face is numb against the dropping rain. The breast pocket soaks and my mind wanders past the windows up into the clouds. It wanders to my wife sitting in the California sun. Her angel white body glistens near the pool and her laughter is melodic in my ears. My ring finger burns warm and steams against the outside. Water runs down the nave of my neck, down over my chest. The rain seasons my smile when I whisper into the sky, “Three more weeks.”