Bring the Umbrella

It had been raining off and on all day—the kind of rain that never really clears, just hangs around waiting. The forecast said thunderstorms, but the sky didn’t show it. I knew better. The weather wasn’t to be trusted.

Still, when the sun broke through for a minute, we decided to head out. I suggested an umbrella, and against my better judgment, didn’t insist on it.

We weren’t even a block away when I looked up and said, “I don’t know, man… those clouds look pretty ominous. Are you sure you don’t want to grab the umbrella?”

He smirked. “Nah, we’ll be fine.”

Five minutes later, we were sprinting through sheets of heavy rain, soaked straight through. We stumbled into his favorite bar—a Latin spot, lively and familiar—dripping all over the floor.

The staff cracked up when they saw us. They took our wet clothes, tossed them in front of a dryer, handed us each a staff t-shirt, and poured us shots on the house.

Drinks in hand, we started drying off and easing into the vibe.

We were mid-conversation, laughing about how it hadn’t rained that hard in New York in years, when he reached out and gently pulled my chin toward him.

“Hey,” he said, soft but clear. “You were right. I was wrong.”

I smiled. “Yeah. I know. About what?”

He kept holding my chin.

“The umbrella. You were right. I was wrong. And whenever I see dark clouds, I’ll remember how important it is to tell you that.”

He paused. “What’d you call them?”

“Ominous.”

“Right. Ominous clouds.”

He smiled a little, still holding me there.

“I love you so much.”