I’ve been walking in the rain more. It's been raining more and more, and I've begun walking in it but today was the rainiest it’s been.
I was soaked to the bone by the time I was halfway to the cafe.
But the thing is once you're soaked you can't get wetter. I wear a raincoat and a hat. I don’t like umbrellas; they get in the way.
I took an extra long step to clear a lake that had formed at the curb cutout (not unusual for the corner, not a challenge for me) and felt the hem of my now fully sodden trousers dip below the tongue of my waxed desert boots. Manhattan streets in a torrent may be the spiritual opposite of the desert Mr. Clarke had in mind but they are performing nobly, at least until my garments reorder themselves.
The tongue squeezes back on the hem as my heel lands on the cub and water gushes down around my ankle immediately soaking into my sock. As my foot pivots flat onto the pavement and the tongue releases the water begins to flow directly into my shoe and, in a matter of minutes, first my right then left shoes are completely flooded.
As the leather swells it begins rubbing against my ankle each step taking a little more skin before pumping cool rainwater from my sock or pants (which way is up) over the growing wound.
I arrive. As I enter the cafe, I tilt back my hood and unzip my jacket, water pours down my back, sleeves. In a moment I'm in a puddle and then I step forward, repeating the process on the brown rain rug until it's my order.
A cortado, a croissant. And a canele. I scarf down the canele immediately.
onetwothreefourits gone
Not a usual part of my breakfast but well deserved in today's rain. The custard center and waxy, crispy shell are perfect.
I pocket the wax paper bag, hand stamped with the cafe’s logo, containing my croissant, and zip it against the rain. Normally I eat it on the walk back but the rain is far too heavy for the delicate layers so I pocket it for home. I will forget it in the pocket until lunch when the moisture has already saturated the flaky crust.
My cortado floats across the counter. I replace my hood and return to the stream, covering the cutout in the lid from the gumdrop-sized rain. A pool quickly forms (everywhere) on the lid giving a cold chaser to the coffee if I forget to shake it off before each sip.
On the walk home, I step freely in the puddles; my shoes can't get wetter.

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