To you, Rainy Summer Day,

I don’t know how to say this subtly, so I’ll just say it: I love you. So much. Like Adam Levine loves his own shirtless body; Like Colin Firth loves Elizabeth Bennett in BBC’s “Pride and Prejudice.” You are Elizabeth, and I am Colin, and I am asking you to marry me despite not knowing you very well and also it being very inappropriate.

In this case, it’s inappropriate because you’re rain and a day, and that means we’ll never truly be together. You’re here when you’re here—that’s why I pursue you—but then you’re gone. Not only gone, but gone without a hint of warning. I wake up, open the blinds, and like that Jon Hamm baseball movie I didn’t get to see in theatres, you’ve disappeared. And in your wake is only the sun’s overwhelming passion.

I don’t know how to tell the sun I don’t care. That it’s over between us. That I started resenting it years ago. It’s just always there. It follows me as if my empty,  broken heart will look to its rays for comfort in your absence. But I won’t. The only thing I want is cloud and gloom and rain—the only thing I desire is permission to stay inside and do work instead of going out and “having fun.”

Because that’s the thing: you free me. I can stay inside, I can drink tea, I can plan and plot movies to watch and work to finish. The sun demands I conform, that I get tanned, that I spend time in parks and on beaches. I hate parks and beaches, and I know you do, too. That’s why when you’re near, I put my hand on the window and revel in the knowledge that you can feel my touch.

And I know that’s all we’ll ever have. I know that a few hours of beautiful relief after days of incessant humidity is where our relationship will peak. But I also know that you’ll come back. And again, like that Jon Hamm movie I never got to see in theatres, I’ll defend you. I’ll say how much you’re misunderstood. That you’re good, and promising, and necessary. That I like you.

I like you, Rainy Summer Day. I like you a lot. I like that you make the grass green and flowers bloom and work to silence everyone who goes on and on and onnnnnnn about how much they love 40-degree weather. They’re liars. Nobody loves weather like that. What we all love is rain, and cloud, and excuses to be inside. You free us. You free me. And there’s a joke about being wet here and I refuse to make it.

All that being said, I remain, hungrily yours,

Anne T. Donahue