Cake in the Rain.

Cake in the rain.

Once I met a man, and he knew of cake in the rain. People do not often know about this, and they most certainly do not talk about it.

“What was that?” I said in repulsive confusion, “Cake? In the rain?”

The man had remarked of all the sweet, lovely things that could be in the rain, but he remarked mostly of cake. A strawberry cake that had the most beautiful swirl on top, and all the various layers of diabetic intoxication it held. The man had seen many rings and stood tall as though I am true to my word. His golden breath escaped his lips in wavering motion, as did his wisdom from his shell.

“Please keep to yourself sir, I don’t want to use this.” I held up my bright yellow umbrella, it was supposed to rain that eve.

Prophets do not often speak plainly, and he surely did not. He continued speaking of all the cake in the rain, and how every car gave him the coldest chills; he spoke so much but didn’t say anything at all. I paced through the train station; tan tiles were ignited under my feet. Finally, after mumbling for some time, and shooting invitational glances in my direction, I asked him.

“What are you on about?”

For one moment, and for only one moment did I see his eyes. They were old, grey, tired demons burning through paper-thin cataracts. He peered at me with an expression that you don’t often see and laid his briefcase down. Creeping his body down to his makeshift chair, he finally lay steadily enough to explain.

“Cake should not be in the rain, but I’ve seen it there. I’ve seen all the cake washed away, through and through, icing and all. I have seen the gentlest beast in the softest encasing rip through entire villages of cake. Its sharp claws would run through anything, but especially cake. I am a cake. I am sure that if I were to step out into the rain, or if I were to slip and fall into those tracks, I am sure that I would be a cake.”

He ran his hands through his pockets and took out a photograph; it had a picture of a woman. Old, grey, lively demons ran in her perfect blue eyes, and she had the smile that only the birth of a child, or a particularly sweet piece of cake can bring. His demeanor had changed from confusion to sadness, for the torn, faded picture was held for a long time.

“Who is that? Is that all? What do you mean by cake? How are you a cake? What do you…? Do you…? What…?” My questions became a wave, and in almost any ocean, it seemed to be lost in the greatness of it all. The man held the photo for a long, long time; he seemed to want to hold it until it could be real. After some more time in his mind, the poor old soul put away the photograph and preached once more.

“You know that cake is rare? I remember that there used to be no cake. Some people never got cake, and some people got too much cake. I had cake once; it was lovely until the rain came. I am sure that you have had cake too, I am sure it was perfect. I wish that I never had cake, I wish that all the rain would come early. I wish that all the cake was in the rain.”

His old, grey, tired demons held seas now. I had stopped pacing and held my full attention to him. I wanted to ask more questions and keep asking until my time was out, but I knew that there was only one question that mattered.

“What is cake?” I asked quizzically.

The man wiped his waterfalls, and spoke in a much quieter voice than before, for the rain had broken his mind, and his words.

“I am a cake. She was a cake. You are a cake. I once drank a cake that had more years than me, and I had rain for many days. My cake was once in the rain, and now I have no cake. I am sure that if she were here, I would not be a cake, and I would be happy. I am sure that if she had as much cake as me, she would know what the rain does to it. You will have more cake than me I’m sure, as will everyone that does not find the perfect cake. I wish that I had more cake, and I wish that there was no rain, did you know that rain only comes where cake is?”

My mind was now running faster than ever, faster than any tiger, athlete, and lie. I thought of all my cake, and how much cake I want to have. I thought of all the rain that would soon pounce, and how much of that cake would be worth the rain. We sat in the train station for a long time, and we thought for a long time. I thought about nothing and everything, as did the man. I wanted to ask everything, and I needed to ask everything, for one does not leave with just the thought of cake in the rain. I thought about how the world was almost dark if you stared long enough, and how the word “bowl” is a rather funny one if you say it enough. Eventually, after my decade long trance had rid my mind of any sense, my train had arrived.

I wiped the sudden rain on my cheeks, stared at the man, and contemplated what to say. Although regretfully, I decided that nothing was best. I boarded my train with an empty plate and clear skies, for I had no cake, and therefore I had no rain. The window of the dark transit lay frozen in time, and as it pulled away from the station, the man looked up. With complexion lost in frosted panes, and mind lost in thoughts of cake, I thought of where he would go, who he would be, and if he even knew I existed. Although I suppose that doesn’t matter, as he does not speak for my truth, as I most certainly do not speak of cake in the rain.