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He was walking up the Eugenia steps on the first wet evening. The weathermen had been alarmedly warning of the dreaded return of the atmopsheric river and how horrible it was going to be. He’d remembered yawning as he snapped the television black in the middle of the warning.

He’d thrown on his yellow slicker, that Jack, who is the ex for reasons people are exes, has described as “inspired by lustful thoughts for the Gordon’s Fisherman.” While Jack’s pseudopsycho diagnosis wasn’t all that wrong. Sure, it was more Morton’s Salt Girl than Gordon’s Fisherman - but he wasn’t about to give Jack that ammunition.

Yellow slicker about his shoulder he wandered in the assured gathering doom. He walked along daring the heavens to break open - and ‘let slip the dogs of war.’ He got a half an hour or so into his walk and realized the tsunami from above so warned by the hot guy on channel five and the not quite so hot since he’d shaved guy on channel thirteen both predicted like blind witches talking to MacBeth? Wasn’t coming.

Never matter, half way up the Eugenia steps came this perfect little wooden sitting bench. It was dedicated to some long dead anonymous person nobody in these woods knew any longer.

At night, particularly in the new darkness of every autumn, the sitting bench is slathered in the perfect lighting from the streetlight above on 18th. It’s like something out of a Judy Garland movie, but without her dying of an overdose at the end or something.

The only movie star he loves watching die in movies is Julia Roberts. Particularly Steel Magnolias. Over and over. Jack had once come home and found him on the couch in pink sweatpants, giggling watching her die for the three hundredth time.

It wasn’t like Jack didn’t have reasons to have made him an ex as well. Nobody is perfect.

But he sat there as this full breath of wind churned down the steps whistling it’s way down the steps into the woods below. It made a little red riding hood late for grandma’s house style howl.

“Is that so…” He muttered quietly.

Just then, a short but glorious shower of the brightest pink impatiens, perhaps blown free from their plant from the street above, showered around him. He giggled as the soft pink blooms came to rest. One twirled and turned and danced in the air before ever so gently coming to stop face first on the pavement at his feet.

He got up and knelt down to take a closer look at this most perfect of organic curtsy. Leaving it to glisten in the light from 17th street, he said in a perfect Julia Robert’s accent, “mah cullluhs are blush and bashful.”

- and then immediately in the worst Sally Fields corrective tone, “hurh culluhs ah pink and pink.”

He cackled his way into the darkness. God he was fucking hilarious!