BitterSweetLife

The clouds were machine-gunning the pavement as I ran down the sidewalk to the car. My route was a straight shot, seventy-five yards through billowing sheets of artillery, without cover, and I died the death of a thousand firing squads, riddled with iron-gray liquid bullets. When I finally reached the car, I had to stand in a 4-inch pond as I struggled with the keys. The rain took advantage of the standing target and shot me through the eye and in the cranium, repeatedly, execution-style. It was only my skin's resistance to osmosis (one characteristic that distinguishes us from earthworms) that prevented the storm from fulfilling its murderous intent.

I could hardly believe my "luck" (proof that God is sympathetic to the charms of a good mocha) when I pulled up in front of the coffee shop and discerned, through the steaming windshield, that the best street parking place was wide open. I pulled in, jumped out, and ran to the doorway of the Broadway Cafe, where I was halted momentarily by a lady struggling with her umbrella. "Not that it helped at all anyway," she said. But by that time we were inside the door, the rain lashing vindictively against the picture windows, and it made no difference. We were safe and warm, if not dry, inhaling delicious Arabica coffee fumes instead of misted, inner-city water.