Abram stood at the street corner, waiting for the light to change, his umbrella held above his head. The rain was light, hardly warranting an umbrella at all, but still he held it there.

Abram’s umbrella wasn’t exactly useful against the rain, anyway. He was in a fit of rage, the wind having inverted it, flipping it so that it no longer domed over his head, pushing the water off to the side, but instead was a cup, collecting. Were he thirsty, he would have a readily accessible drink. But he was not. So it collected.

The light changed, and Abram started across the street. The wind blew – the thing that had caused his rage, that had ruined his umbrella. He sneered in its direction, and the poor driver stopped at the light thought he was sneering at her.

Another gust of wind blew, and Abram tilted his umbrella toward it in challenge. The wind blew in return, and the umbrella snapped back to its former shape. The water that had collected inside splashed down to the ground, most of landing on Abram’s shoes. It didn’t matter. His umbrella was fixed. The wind had apologized.

He looked down the street again and tipped his hat, smiling. The driver was confused.


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