A storm hit just as we left school today. The black cloud hung over our black Tahoe like a cloud of depression hanging over a little cartoon dude in an old-school Zoloft commercial. Fat raindrops plopped on the hot windshield. The temperature dropped from 90 to 75 in half an hour.
As we wended our way through one small town, then the next, the storm remained the same. No more rain. No less rain. To put it in physics teacher talk, we were on the fulcrum of ol' lever storm. Perfectly balanced. Until we weren't.
I made a left turn and all precipitation ceased. "Hey!" I called over my shoulder to The Pony. "Where'd all that rain go?"
"You turned the corner and got away from it," he said without looking up from his laptop.
Yes. We gave the rain the slip. Not like little Theodore Cleaver gave Miss Landers the slip on the last day of school, instead of the monogrammed handkerchiefs June had picked out and had gift-wrapped and delivered by the department store. The slip. An escape. Like Mary Clancy and Rachel Devery were always trying to give Marvel Ann in The Trouble With Angels.
Oh, the precipitation found us again several miles down the road. Right about the time I was driving one-handed, wearing out my other arm by patting myself on the back. We were not very good slippers, it seems.
But for a short while, I felt like I was getting away with something.