Today, when I woke up it was pouring, slow and steady. Not a storm, just simply a patient and sagely down pour. I donned my best hoodie, the grass green one with a big crow that I shoddily sewed on myself, made from black polyester with little while poka dots. I twisted my hair up into a little curly crown around my head, secured with one hundred bobby pins, because on a day like today no amount of blow drying is going to straighten this mane that grows curlier with each birthday, Christmas and Valentine's day. I looked at the umbrellas on the door. Neither are mine. I grabbed what I thought to be the better of the two. I was amiss in my decision. With the first draft outside it blew inside out. Soaking wet, I laughed like a madwoman the rest of the journey to work.
I like watching people in the morning in New York when it rains. If you can manage to peer out from the belly of your own nylon make-shift shelter, you can see most everyone else not peer out from the belly of their make-shift shelters. It looks like you are walking into a see of people who have umbrellas for heads. Tall graceful men and women in black business suits, with black umbrellas for heads. People do, however, sense in their periphery other umbrellas on the path to collision with their own, and like a sixth sense will move their umbrellas slightly up or down accordingly. They bob up and down respective to their fleeting partners in what appears to be the mating dance of the Umbrella Head race.