Summer Storm

BOOM.

The thunder is muffled, but I instantly realise what's going on. Deep inside the mall, I'd never seen the storm developing, but now that it's in full swing, even Starbucks' light jazz can't drown it out.

Fuck. I've left the roof down. And I'm a quarter mile from the car.

By the time I make it to the doors it's well and truly bucketing drown, drenching me to the skin in seconds. The car will already be soaked but I have to go anyway; this is my problem and I intend to own it. I deserve this.

Water is dripping down the dash as I hammer on the "close roof" button. The cup-holders are full, and the seats are already dank. As I head back to the mall, the rain stops, of course.

The worst bit comes later. I'd promised to take my host out to dinner and, aware that she's never ridden in a convertible, I ask her which car she'd like to take. She's disappointed, and her gorgeous French accent takes none of the sting from her words.

"Ah, ze dry one?"

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