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Jake

When he comes out of the Chipotle a sudden gust of wind tilts the chip basket out of his hand, then, when he bends down, smacks him with a fluttering newspaper.

“I’m not reading the headline,” Jake growls, peeling it aside.

From a little ways down the street, a busking violinist draws out her first mournful note; two ravens on a telephone line shudder and cry.

“Don’t even try to bring that pathetic fallacy shit today!” Jake yells at the sky. “I swear to God, I will dance with my umbrella!”

A thunderhead pokes above the horizon, looking quite literally sheepish.

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