rainstorm

I kicked some water into the air, the rain kept pouring down.
There was a puddle, growing and morphing to match the contour and crevices that marked the pavement below my feet, testifying to the natural erosion and wear of countless past rainstorms like this one. I dug my toe into the puddle, my foot already having reached the point of saturation where I was no longer worried about where the water was in relation to my foot. I gave the water a good kick, sending it back into the air, only to disappear among the unremitting torrent.
I kicked and splashed, hoping my friends would see, my parents. I hoped my former elementary school teachers, police officers, and accountant would come and see me splashing in the street even as housewives slammed their windows to protect their furniture from this onslaught of vindicating liquid. I asked God for a clergyman, a servant of His word, to walk by just at the moment I tumbled into the road, rolling, splashing, and kicking in the inch-deep puddle, so as to catch a glimpse of my enjoyment of my modest but undeniably private beach.
The only thing I wanted more than death at that moment was to be witnessed, a voyeuristic perversion of desire. As my eyes rolled back into my head, I imagined a crowd of spectators, watching from buildings, nay, from a stadium, and I was the lone gladiator still standing, evoking the awe and pity of thousands.
My desire was fearsome, even to my own dark soul, but in practice I was spared moral consideration of any kind; no one was around, anywhere in sight. I assume they must have been shuttered in their homes, with their pets and children, clustered around the hearth.