Its raining. Are you alone? Can I come for tea? I want to hear what you have to tell me.

No umbrella, Harris tweed pulled over my head, leather soles slapping the wet macadam, propelling tiny foot-fountains about my ankles. Damn! The windows down! I clutch the cool, wet chrome handle to connect with palpable escape.

I wont be back after lunch, Miss Slater; I feel a fever coming on.

Wheeling out of the parking lot, the tires sizzle with despair. Melancholy. Other drivers hunched over wheels, peering through the rain, seeking havens. The wipers mesmerize me, providing a thumping pulse for my thrumming machine. Rolling. Heat and violins breathe through the dashboard. I am content but anxious to exit the city. Sweeping onto the bridge, my black sedan vaults the river. Turning toward the pelted muddy current, I see it snake to taper and wind out of sight. I shiver and drive on.

The suburbs receive me. Dark, green elms, wet and stooping, nod in the rain. Somehow they recall bearded men huddled about a barrel of fire. Homeless, we exchange a vacant gaze. As I break out into the country, the sky opens into a grey canopy of rain, intensifying like a thousand fingers typing on my roof. I flip the switch and the pulse accelerates, somewhat clearing my muddled view. I look to the trees, but they are preoccupied with lifting their leafy faces to slake the sky, reveling in their naked shower.

The road ahead is straight, the tires hurtling to confront and spit back more rain. Ten more miles to sherry, tea, flames, and you...