I took my Cessna higher and higher, bursting through the cotton-wisp clouds, soaring past its service ceiling, and the air became so rarefied I could hardly breathe. As I began to pass out, I brushed the face of God.

“Hey God,” I apologised to the firmament.

“HIYA LAUREN,” boomed a voice like violent vortices of roiling storms across the thick sulphuric clouds of Venus.

“So God, uh, before I pass out, I just have a quick question.”

“FIRE AWAY, MY CHILD,” twinkled a voice like a billion brilliant shards of glass arrayed in perfect crystalline latticework.

“Okay so I’ve been wondering, You know rain, right? The weather phenomenon? I keep hearing that rain is actually Your tears. And like, from smart people as well.”

“SO IS YOUR QUESTION WHETHER OR NOT RAIN IS MY TEARS?” crackled a voice like fanged flames licking at the base of an enormous cast-iron cauldron.

“Yeah. That’s what I’m trying to ask.”

“NO, MY CHILD, RAIN IS NOT MY TEARS,” rumbled a voice like the shifting sands of Samarkand.

“Thanks God! You see, my roommate and I had a bet, and she said yes, and I said no, so I really appreciate hearing—”

“BUT SHE’S HALF-RIGHT. RAIN IS ONE OF MY BODILY FLUIDS,” echoed a voice like a thousand sleeping Leviathans through the sepulchral splendour of a sunken city.

“Wait what?”

“AT THIS POINT I MUST INFORM YOU THAT THERE ARE THINGS THAT MORTALS WERE NOT MEANT TO KNOW. EXACTLY WHICH OF MY BODILY FLUIDS RAIN IS, AND WHETHER OR NOT IT’S ONE OF THE SLIPPY SEXUAL ONES, IS ONE OF THOSE THINGS,” rang a voice that sounded the way that horchata tastes.

“Gee thanks. I’m actually not sure I want to know anymore,” I said, before I plummeted back through the cotton-wisp clouds.