It had been a hot, humid day, further compromising my somewhat unsteady health. I was leaving the doctor’s office and had just been on the street for thirty seconds when the storm came.
I can’t remember the last time I witnessed such an intensive cloudburst. Within half a minute, I had to accept that abandoning my bike on the spot and seeking shelter under the closest roof was the only option to avoid pneumonia. I stepped into a shop that I would otherwise never have entered, a knitting store. Already soaked to the bone, I asked if I was allowed to wait out the thunderstorm. “Sure”, the lady who owned the shop, said. “There’s a bench over there”. She started talking photos of the impressive rain shower.
I sat down between lots of knitting yarn. Blue, red, turquoise, soft as baby skin and also rougher ones. The bench was cushioned, and a green knitted pillow added to the atmosphere of grandparentsque coziness. Two light green children’s chairs kept the bench company.
Toddler knitware and mannequins with pink scarves surrounded me as I listened to the angry thunder. A multicolor knitted pennant banner graced the window through which I, together with a crocheted goose, watched my bike outside. It was lying on the pavement like a fallen horse.
The shop owner chatted on the phone. “He acts like their crown prince”, she gossiped. When she asked questions, I was never sure if she meant me. (“How do you like it there?”) The lightening struck. I got out my ZEIT paper and started reading. Outside, the street was flooding more and more.
It felt like fall.