Home and Dry

It was raining when the train pulled into the station.  Harold Salt fastened every button on his ankle-length raincoat, tucked his trousers into his socks and his sleeves into his gloves.  He turned up his collar and pulled his hat down, almost blocking his vision.  He jumped from the train and pattered along the platform to the exit, ahead of the other commuters wending their way home from work.

He hurried along the street, barely looking where he was going.  He kept his head down, taking care not to splash in the puddles.  He came to a kerb that was drowning in the overflow from a blocked drain.  Steeling himself, he leapt across the water, clearing it in one stretch of his long legs.

Ha ha!  He felt as though he’d cleared the English Channel.  Laughing he continued on his way.  He might – he just might – be home and dry.

At the corner of his street, just yards from his front door, a lorry hurtled past; its wheels cut through the gutters sending a wave of water grasping at Harold like a monster claw.  Harold shrank back and avoided most of the torrent.  Unfortunately, the sudden movement made his hat fall off and the rain pelted directly onto his head.

Harold Salt dissolved.

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