Wren and I are going to an engagement party on the other side of the park. We are biking, on the heavy rental Citi bikes, and I am balancing a large bouquet of flowers. It’s a summer day. Blue skies and puffy clouds, like the Toy Story movie poster.
As we cross Grand Army Plaza, somehow one of Wren’s yellow clogs falls off, right in the middle of the intersection. A stranger stops and hands it back to her. She is feeling frazzled. We are running late.
Halfway through the park, the rain begins as if a single fat drop is called down, one at a time. The pace starts increasing. More drops are called down.
Like an orchestra tuning itself, slowly each of the thousands of people picnicking in the meadow begin to scream in unison. We pedal on. Just out of sight, their voices are reaching crescendo. Wren’s hair, which she had carefully curled, is now totally straight. My sunglasses are swimming goggles. We giggle.