A supernatural rainstorm overwhelmed the city. I locked up my bike and instead took a taxi to a house where G and some friends were meeting for an evening drink. G and I had had a few encounters since our first break-up ten days before, some on the phone, some in person, always dramatic and painful. Neither of us were coping very well. At first I was quiet and reserved at the house, I didn’t know how to interact naturally with G or his friends. But the mood somehow became festive, the rain’s ferocity made it impossible to sit still and be calm, so we ended up blasting the music and dancing on the furniture. In a moment of crazed revelry, the four of us paraded outside onto the block-long stretch of Manning Avenue. The rain was loud and coming down in enormous tulip-sized tears. I shrieked and jumped up from the flooded pavement and G caught me mid-leap. We stood there for a moment, facing each other, like one body, his arms wrapped tight around my hips, the apocalyptic rain crashing down around us. We knew the separation couldn’t last much longer.