We sat on the patio for the first time in a 5-month summer. The sun was hiding under a thick layer of milky gray clouds swirling together a storm. My soul craved rain and my skin was thirsty, every pore welcomed the air's spirits like tiny shot glasses at a divine Happy Hour. Tables began filling up with patrons so ecstatic over cool air they chanced a downpour. An array of businesspeople on lunch break and tourists from the outlet mall trickled in, everyone elated by a glimpse of liquid oasis.
We braved the first sprinkles. Considered staying put even when the drops gained frequency and weight. Then a thunder cluster snapped so ferociously I popped an inch up in my chair. The sky burst. We scrambled to clear our dining remnants and precious belongings, tucking cell phones in our armpits to dash toward the line of patio goers filing inside.
Peering out 360-degree glass windows at flash flood, dumping buckets kinda rain, we laughed.
"That's Vegas for you!" she flicked up her arms in accepting exasperation.