DMB.

Indian style on my ladybug blanket. We peeled the starbursts from their wrappers.  I leaned back on my elbows and peered at the eerily green sky. One drop fell and licked my knee. You leaned into me. I rested my cheek on your shoulder and breathed you in. Dave and the band appeared on stage and I closed my eyes, waiting for the first vibration, the first strum. 

Rain drizzled down my neck and pooled in the crevices of my collar bones. Don't Drink the Water sounded from the stage as I burrowed beneath the blanket, pressing my forehead to my knees. I inhaled deeply; coffee, fabric softener, a day's sweat. Inside my cotton cocoon, the rain seemed less intense. Lively, but muted. Rain saturated the blanket and seeped though my sweater, rinsing my skin. I shivered and hummed Lousiana Bayou. I lifted the blanket and donned my sunglasses to shield my eyes from the downpour. One large drop splattered on the right lens, amplifying the red and blue stage lights. I refocused my eyes on the drop and counted the squiggly amoeba-like edges. The harmonica reverberated through my chattering teeth and you held my hand and we ran.