Have you ever had that one friend—the kind you can tell anything to, do anything with—and even when things go sideways, you just end up laughing? I was lucky enough to have that kind of friendship.
When I lived in New York City, we went out together at least three or four nights a week after work. One evening in particular has stayed with me—not because anything extraordinary happened, but because something ordinary turned unforgettable.
We had just eaten at one of our favorite places and were walking back to my apartment on the East Side when it started to rain. Not a polite drizzle—this was a full commitment. The kind of rain that soaks you instantly, pounds the pavement, and turns sidewalks into shallow lakes. Puddles formed quickly along Third Avenue as we walked uptown.
I’ve always been the childish one between the two of us. So naturally, I started jumping into the puddles.
My friend didn’t hesitate. She followed along easily, willing to meet my chaos with her own. Our energy fed off each other, rising with every splash. Picture two women in their late twenties and early thirties, deliberately launching themselves into puddles, laughing uncontrollably as thick drops of rain kept falling. We didn’t have an umbrella. We didn’t want one. We were completely drenched.
A little farther up the block, an older woman sat on a bench. Just beyond her was a puddle—larger, deeper, and far more tempting than the rest. I felt pulled toward it, as if gravity itself had shifted. Time slowed. I walked toward it with intention, knowing exactly what I was about to do.
I glanced at my friend and gave her my best jackal grin. She had no idea what was coming—and I’m not sure she would’ve stopped me even if she did.
The woman on the bench let out a loud yell, followed by a cackle of laughter, sensing the moment before it happened.
Then I went for it.
Two feet at once, I jumped straight into the center of the puddle. Water exploded outward. And in what felt like slow motion, a shot-sized splash of dirty New York street water flew directly into my friend’s open mouth.
I saw it happen. I can still see it—clear as a replay decades later. Her eyes widened so dramatically I thought they might fall out of her head. She spit the water out instantly, and we stared at each other in stunned silence.
No laughter. Just shock.
The world paused. The rain seemed to freeze midair. It felt like a full minute passed, though it was probably only a few seconds.
And then we lost it.
We doubled over laughing, gasping for breath, clutching our sides. The woman on the bench stood up and walked toward us, smiling and shaking her head.
“Don’t ever stop doing that,” she said.
We quieted.
“Life dries people out,” she continued. “It makes them careful. Makes them forget how to jump in.”
She looked at the two of us—soaked, unfiltered, still buzzing with laughter.
“Hold on to each other,” she added. “Friends like that don’t come around often.”
Then she turned, sat back down on her bench, and let the rain keep falling.
My friend and I didn’t speak as we walked away. We didn’t need to. Something had been named—something we already felt but hadn’t said out loud.
Years later, I don’t remember what we ate that night. I don’t remember what we talked about afterward. But I remember the puddle. The rain. The laughter. And the quiet certainty that some friendships aren’t just part of your life—they become part of who you are.
