It starts raining exactly when Nina is three streets from anywhere with a roof. Typical.
She is running now, her bag over her head, when someone says her name. Tom is standing under the bus shelter, the very same one from the story that started all this.

“You’re getting soaked,” he says, moving over. “I’m aware,” she says, arriving under the small dry rectangle of roof.

They are standing very close, because the shelter is small and the rain is getting worse. Somewhere behind them, a bus is pulling away empty. Neither of them is watching for it.

“Are you going anywhere in particular?” he asks. “Not really,” she says. “Good,” he says. “Neither am I.”
The rain is not stopping. Nina is not checking her phone. For the first time in a long time, nobody is hurrying.

Some conversations only happen because the weather refuses to cooperate.



