When Jed and I left the house this morning it wasn’t raining.
At times I could barely see the trees at the verge of the road, although that may have been because my glasses were streaming. I was soaked through. Although sectors of me were humidly warm, my extremities were swollen and numb. My hair was plastered to my skull, apart from the occasional strand whipping me across the face. I was experiencing rising anxiety about how permeable my mobile phone was.
Halfway to Hakahaka Bay, Sheriff and The Bunqueen pulled up beside me. Sheriff wound down the window. Their car was warm; they looked dry and toasty and strikingly sane.
“You going to Picton?” I mumbled through blue lips.
“Hell, yeah; it’s Sunday! We’re going to get the papers and read them over coffee.”
Then they were gone in a puff of damp exhaust fumes.
I was just reflecting upon whether my cotton pants could feasibly retain any more water, allied with how much my life completely sucked, when I got a text from Husband: ‘Fancy a pickup?’
At that moment, I viscerally understood the meaning of true love.
Although it was another ten minutes before my life stopped sucking.