“You said the rain would stop,” she said.
“Is that a driveway or just another turn?” he asked.
“You said it would stop,” she said.
He moved onto the shoulder slowly. He looked at her. “I did but it hasn’t has it.”
She watched out the window. He pulled onto the road.
“She said it would be on the left,” he said.
“But going up or going down?” she said. “We don’t know which direction.”
The wipers sliced through the water on the window. The leaves above the road looked like foil shapes in a blender, like love poetry assembled by knives.
“It’s not stopping,” she said. “You said it would stop.”
“Yes, I said it would stop,” he said. “Just call and tell her we’re going to be late.”
She looked at him. “Very late. I don’t know if we’re going up or going down.”
