Rain Rain Go Away

It's still raining.  That makes 48 hours, maybe more.  Like a North Poler in the early winter months, I've lost sight of sunlight.  I hate when it rains not because I mind getting wet, but because New Yorkers don't know how to walk with a damn umbrella.  It's like playing dodge ball with your face and a plethora of metal spikes.   Meyer B. passes me with panda-patterned umbrella.  He doesn't see me, but he's tall and easily manages to steer clear of me; that's more than I can say for the woman with circular umbrella.

In the station, I notice Rabbi G. texting on the catwalk.  On the train, I sit next to a woman reading a Vogue article about some other woman who left the city to live in rural Maine on a smaller budget.   The idea is enticing for a moment, but there really isn't much to do there.  This woman must have had some other motive the article has omitted - romantic love met on a connecting flight, or some strange line of business that can only thrive in the northernmost parts of the Continental U.S.  No, I'll be staying in New York for now, even with its idiotic rainy-day pedestrians.