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.