They shake their heads beneath umbrellas as our feet are lost to puddles. They watch with pity as confetti turns to pulp.
A wedding in this weather, they remark. So unfortunate.
How we’d met at the bus stop, seven years ago. How fierce rain pelted the cramped shelter. How we’d glimpsed each other over the throng of disgruntled bodies.
It’s the kind of love that old songs favoured. Random, true. As friends swiped, slaved over meticulously-written profiles, polishing their armour in an uncertain battlefield, we’d already made it out.
Today the rain compliments our happy tears.