It's funny how sometimes life feels like a movie written by some really fantastic director. Friday, I walked out the doors at work into a light, drizzly, showery rain that felt too cold for early August. It was the kind of rain where it's too wet to put up your umbrella, but you feel foolish holding it over your head. Even when you open it, you still get wet from about your shoulders down. The sky was grey and the wind was chilly.
I walked the block-and-a-half to the Metro stop, trying to decide whether to open my umbrella or not. At the top of the escalators that go down to the platform, the homeless man with eight phonebooks (as a bed?) was covering himself in a trash bag cut like a poncho. That stop doesn't have any kind of a portico, so the early August sleet didn't stop until I reached the platform. By then, I was damp enough to be slightly miserable. I boarded the train a few minutes later, and read a paragraph or two in my too-hard-to-read-on-the-train book. I got off at my stop twenty minutes later, and climbed up the escalator to my neighborhood.
And the sky was a deep oceanic blue. A few pretty clouds dotted the sky like South Pacific islands. The wind blew warm. The people around me smiled at nothing. My steps got lighter, and my weekend began.
