Each cold drop dripping down the edge of her umbrella mocks her. She loathes the muddy makeup the drops paint over her shoe.
She looks right and left again—the same routine she has kept for minutes—but no headlight approaches the dark end of the untarred backstreet.
She hates to miss the party.
A light closes in on her. Its radiance blinds her. A van. The driver rolls down the window.
“Hey! No cars coming down this cursed road. The bridge’s down.”
The van zooms off.
She walks the mud back to the house, to reason with her nagging husband.