Sudden

Sudden

umbrella.jpg

Because the parking lot at La Fonda is full, Clyde and I wind up at El Azteca, the chips-and-salsa joint next door.

As we’re walking in, we see a paper sign in the window: “Sorry, no air conditions.” We go inside anyway, but — despite the whirring ceiling fans — the interior of the restaurant sizzles like a cast-iron fajita pan.

So, despite my vampiric tendencies, we wind up on the patio, huddled in a pool of shade beneath a Dos Equis umbrella. The breeze is warm, but pleasant, and by the time we get our basket of fried carbs (and after I shift my seat to get my back out of the aggressive sunlight), we’re as happy as two tourists on a cruise ship in Cabo.

When the rain begins — when the first fat drops smack the top of our umbrella — we aren’t fazed at all.

“It’s raining,” Clyde observes.

“Really?” I look around. Here and there, a drop of rain catches the sunlight — a handful of diamonds streaking to earth. “Maybe it’ll cool things off.”

The words are like a switch. Suddenly, the heavens open, and the air is bursting with water. Heavy drops slam down, shattering into white spray. People around us squeal, snatch up their chips, and run for the restaurant door.

I sip my frozen margarita. “Want to go inside?”

Clyde, hunched close to the table to avoid the waterfall cascading off the edge of our umbrella, shakes his head. “We’re under an umbrella.”

The rain kicks it up a notch. The air is white with churning water. A steady stream runs down the back of my chair and begins pooling in my seat. Mist rises from the concrete patio, curling up around my legs.

“Okay,” I say. “Let’s go inside.”

We gather plates and glasses and run for it. Inside, the restaurant is dark and cool, but it’s mostly because the back of my shirt and pants are soaked.

Clyde sits opposite me, a big grin on his face, rainwater glistening in his silver hair —

— and suddenly it occurs to me just how lucky I am to be drenched with rain in an slightly-below-average Mexican restaurant, eating chips and watered-down salsa with the man I love.

umbrella.jpg

Because the parking lot at La Fonda is full, Clyde and I wind up at El Azteca, the chips-and-salsa joint next door.

As we’re walking in, we see a paper sign in the window: “Sorry, no air conditions.” We go inside anyway, but — despite the whirring ceiling fans — the interior of the restaurant sizzles like a cast-iron fajita pan.

So, despite my vampiric tendencies, we wind up on the patio, huddled in a pool of shade beneath a Dos Equis umbrella. The breeze is warm, but pleasant, and by the time we get our basket of fried carbs (and after I shift my seat to get my back out of the aggressive sunlight), we’re as happy as two tourists on a cruise ship in Cabo.

When the rain begins — when the first fat drops smack the top of our umbrella — we aren’t fazed at all.

“It’s raining,” Clyde observes.

“Really?” I look around. Here and there, a drop of rain catches the sunlight — a handful of diamonds streaking to earth. “Maybe it’ll cool things off.”

The words are like a switch. Suddenly, the heavens open, and the air is bursting with water. Heavy drops slam down, shattering into white spray. People around us squeal, snatch up their chips, and run for the restaurant door.

I sip my frozen margarita. “Want to go inside?”

Clyde, hunched close to the table to avoid the waterfall cascading off the edge of our umbrella, shakes his head. “We’re under an umbrella.”

The rain kicks it up a notch. The air is white with churning water. A steady stream runs down the back of my chair and begins pooling in my seat. Mist rises from the concrete patio, curling up around my legs.

“Okay,” I say. “Let’s go inside.”

We gather plates and glasses and run for it. Inside, the restaurant is dark and cool, but it’s mostly because the back of my shirt and pants are soaked.

Clyde sits opposite me, a big grin on his face, rainwater glistening in his silver hair —

— and suddenly it occurs to me just how lucky I am to be drenched with rain in an slightly-below-average Mexican restaurant, eating chips and watered-down salsa with the man I love.

Mark McElroy

I'm a husband, mystic, writer, media producer, creative director, tinkerer, blogger, reader, gadget lover, and pizza fiend.

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Who Wrote This?

Mark McElroy

I'm a husband, mystic, writer, media producer, creative director, tinkerer, blogger, reader, gadget lover, and pizza fiend.

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