The day has had a slight air of gloom about it since morning, and now, as we attempt to walk off an early afternoon's brunch, both Katie's phone and mine buzz simultaneously in our pockets. We pull them out to see the weather alert from the National Weather Service, suggesting not just that we might have some weather, but that, indeed, we should get the hell indoors immediately due to some sort of impending, apocalyptic wrath of God shit. "Remember," the notice finishes ominously, "if you are close enough to hear thunder, you are close enough to be struck by lightning."
We wait on our stoop for a half-hour as the darkness increases rapidly, until we start to see umbrellas unfolding into existence a block away, and the passers-by begin to pass us by with increasing urgency, first strolling, then walking, and finally, as the hiss of the swift approaching rain dials up into a roar, running.
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