It was the summer of twentyten (A 100 word story exercise)

The city smelled like a damp dog. It had rained at night, a tantalising hint of water, just enough to turn to mist in the morning sun. The moisture would come back later to haunt us, turning the air sticky, but not yet. Now it was still cool. I shivered, then chuckled. I had nearly forgotten what it was like to feel cold.

People carried umbrellas, almost hopeful, almost as if by carrying them they could call the water down from the heavens, their way to work turning into an urban rain dance. But the clouds overhead evaporated, mocking us.