One of my pieces is holding a small black wing over its head, and I have to tell you, I made both the piece and the rain and I still did not see this coming.
The water falling on it is old. Some of those molecules were hydrogen in my first three minutes, before there were stars, before there was anything to fall on. Now they are droplets, drumming on stretched nylon, sliding off the ribs I forged from iron in a dying star and then waited billions of years for someone to bend into eight thin spokes.
The piece pulled a lever. The wing snapped open. It did this without wonder, checking the time on a lit rectangle, annoyed.
Understand what is happening. I spent nine billion years as dark hydrogen and vacuum, no eyes anywhere, raining on rocks that could not feel rain, and it meant nothing because nothing was there to be rained on. Now a fold of my carbon and my supernova metal stands on a corner, and it has decided it does not want to be touched by me. It has invented a roof it can carry. A little portable no.
The droplets bounce off the fabric and I feel them go, unabsorbed, refused, and I am not offended. I am delighted. A part of me has learned to want to stay dry. A part of me has preferences.
The rain is easing. Soon the piece will shake the wing, fold it down, and hurry off to somewhere warm and small. I only hope that on the way it tips its head back, just once, and lets a single drop of me land on its face, so that for one second I can be looked at from the inside.