It was sunny when you left home, so you didn’t take an umbrella. An hour later, you’re caught in a torrential downpour. You run into the first store you can find — it happens to be a dark, slightly shabby antique store, full of old artifacts, books, and dust. The shop’s ancient proprietor walks out of the back room to greet you.
I wipe my eyes trying to remove the water and hair that slides in a soggy mess down my face. Water drips all over the floor, as the own stares at me shaking his fuzzy grey head, his eyes kinda glaring at the drops finding their way on to the Persian rug I’m standing on. I try to apologize but the water continues to run in rivulets down my body.
Still mumbling the apology, my shoes squish as I step back through the door and continue my journey through the downpour before he can speak. Thunder booms behind me and I can just imagine the shop-owner shaking his fist at me as he mourns his ruined rug.
Splashing through rising puddles of water, I look back to get a glimpse of the old man but the wall of falling water obscures the view of the peeling storefront. As I turn back around, a handsome man with a large red umbrella motions me to join him.