I finally looked ahead instead of where my feet fell. The puddles no longer mattered. My sopping socks ceased to exist. I checked my phone. Five minutes. A gust of wind tried to anchor my umbrella, so I closed it without breaking stride and began to jog.
I should have left earlier, I thought to myself, huffing now. For the first time in a long time, I felt my lungs.
I don't know why, but it occurred to me that the torrent of pedestrians moved perpendicular to the rainfall. Two currents colliding. Or maybe kissing. The rain clung to my glasses and blinded me, so I took them off, folded them and shoved them into my pocket.
It was too cold to sweat.
My left leg tensed and cramped up. I winced, stopped in my tracks, looked left down the road, and then right. I stepped off the sidewalk into the stream that flowed along the vacant bicycle lane, turned my back to the crawling city traffic, propped my left foot on the curb, leaned forward with all my weight, and willed the seizure to stop.
Across the road the black and white canopy fluttered above the diner, where... Well, anyhow, it fluttered above the diner.
The cramp went the way of the wet socks.
I nearly fell forward. I ran my hand over my hair and mused at the shampooless shower. Then I fell forward.
Two people helped me up. An older couple. I took a moment to memorize their faces as I thanked them. I really was thankful. I wiped my skinned palms on my soaked jeans.
Then I heard the bell from the streetcar before it came into view.
I made it to the corner, crouched down, rested one hand on my knee, gulped the air to keep from fainting, and smiled so wide that the umbrella I brought seemed unnecessary.
The streetcar dragged itself down the flooding street and stopped right in front of me.
We stood under the umbrella I opened for us and kissed, and kissed.
"I have a change of socks for you," she managed to exhale between them.