It rains too much here – you know it does. And you hate it.

He thought so, too. Lovely coincidence it was. There has been a ratio of 1:1000 who acknowledges rain in a negative way. The vast city is thirsty and the sky gives it what it wants. One day, Pogue asks you why you are still here – regardless of the unbearable rain building harsh taps on the window of your kitchen you reply with a smile but you both know none of you two were satisfied.

Pogue is the six feet boy who listens to the late Jimi Hendrix and rocks out on the acoustic guitar. Why call him ‘late’? You ask him; there is only one ‘Jimi Hendrix’. Because Pogue learned that a smile is the best answer for everything, he does not speak and offers you a fleeting curve of the lip. He learnt it from you and only you.

You like how Pogue clicks his pen repeatedly, how his eyes are swimming in mad concentration as he looks at the music he wrote fifteen minutes ago. Pogue once told you that the waste basket is his best friend. There when you need it, you can dump as much cock and bull you want and it will never tell you to ‘piss off’. You nod, but mutely disagree.

The basement is piled with Rolling Stones magazines from the nineties, accompanied by a few bottles of carbonated water. Because they taste like nothing — the fizz is allegedly a substitute for the taste of liquor (a bad excuse, too) – you forgot what alcohol tasted like, the way it burns your throat as the sharp liquid rushes down, you feel the tiniest whip of smoke gradually waft out between your lips after. You feel the fluid twist in your stomach like acid and burn your inside – or maybe it just burns the butterflies. The feeling you get when you are on the brink of a mental breakdown – crushed. That terrible and agonizing feeling – of butterflies going on a riot inside you – like magic, vanishes: and you are okay.

Pogue came back from school one afternoon, dripping wet. You heedlessly ask what happened and he says that he forgot his umbrella. Your eyes scanned around the doorstep swiftly for the forgotten umbrella and you see none.

You tell him that you hate writing and he comments that you are like a meek version of Holden Caulfield. He says it is a compliment, but your paranoia tells you it isn’t – and never will be. You only glower at him; he picks up his glass bottle, places the round opening to the border of his lips, and gulps it down. You can almost hear the liquid hasten down his throat and sizzles. He places the bottle down, looks at you for a moment; you purposely look at his music sheet in silence, then you hear him choke with mirthless laughter. You laugh along.

When Pogue left the basement, you and his guitar and his music sheets are isolated. You reach over for his glass bottle, bring it up to your nose, and inhale a strong aroma of alcohol.

It is a Monday morning and you are out on the damp balcony upstairs, the rain does not seem to quit. You smell earth and fresh dirt, the smell of rain in a nutshell. You did not eat breakfast and your stomach does not seem to mind. Footsteps vibrates nearer, you do not turn back, because you already know who it is. Pogue stands beside you, his hair is still messy. You hear the main door unlock from downstairs, you glance at Pogue, and he is wearing a soft expression, staring out into the misty rain he loathes so much. You tell him father’s home – stating the obvious. He does not look at you, he only tells you to stay with him. Dry tears begin to swell up behind your eyes.

It is nothing too big but Pogue tells you he finally wrote the perfect piece – for him anyways. You go down to the basement; he straps on his beige acoustic guitar and begins to play. You aren’t really paying attention; you are only loosing yourself again. All wrapped up in your self-indulgent thoughts. He asks how you liked it, you don’t say anything but to present him a smile. Pogue look bemused; you nod your head vaguely to imply your approval. He doesn’t say anything but clicks his tongue.

You are tired, unable to be pulled into a book, or mellow into soft music or float around your thoughts.

“Jude” Pogue calls you.

You wander into his room, cross-armed and crabby. Pogue tells you he’s leaving for Maidhaven. You shrug and leave his room.

You know you are troubled because he is able to get away while you are stuck in this small town, in this stupid house with narrow-minded parents. He is capable of choosing his own life while you are not. You are troubled because you find yourself much more troubled and more than you’d like to be regarding this whole situation. Pogue knocks on your door faintly, which is half opened, but he does not come in. You cough and reply with a bitter “what”. Pogue chuckles hoarsely, and asks if you are okay. You tell him to ‘piss off’.

A few days, weeks, months, or years, you go with Pogue down to the train station. Because you know you will regret not going. Pogue once said your mood does not get the best of you. You only grimaced. You don’t speak much. Hands in your pockets, you glare at Pogue and at the train, wishing you could go with him, leave this damned place. But you do not. Instead, you watch reluctantly as Pogue step on the train, taking your dreams and your only hope of a smile with him. He waves back – like in movies and you do not. Suddenly, the butterflies go on a riot in your stomach. And you feel crushed. You curse inaudibly under your breath.

“Jude” your mom calls firmly, but you know she is screaming and howling on the inside.

I don’t get it. She says. I just don’t get it!

What is there to get, you wonder. But instead, you whisper.

“I just love someone. That’s all.”