Her umbrella blossomed into a canopy, shielding us from the downpour.
The sky was the color of rotten pea-soup, with clouds swirling around as if the apocalypse were on deck, watching the rapture hit a home-run during its at bat.
Rain battered the skin of the transparent plastic, each drop sounding like a gunshot, deflected by the shield of some warrior from ancient times.
I glanced down the street, watching for the headlights of any oncoming cars through the fog and rain; the coast was clear, so we crossed, 6th and 11th, watching the little old lady who lived next door barely clear the top step of the stoop.
A clunk emits from the lock as my door opens, and we hurry inside, shaking off the shards of rain as if they were drops of glass, although that might be better in reverse.
We collapse onto the sofa, listening to the staccato beat provided by the torrent against my windows.
Our shoes are drenched.