Joe and Mabel ran under an awning downtown as a loud clap of thunder introduced a downpour. Each hunched over but were careful not to brush shoulders when the giant drops began to fall.
“God’s peeing on us,” Joe announced somberly.
“That’s not nice,” Mabel replied, keeping her eyes forward. “It’s God’s lemonade.”
Joe stuck his head out slightly and extended his tongue. After a moment of smacking his lips he said, “It doesn’t taste like lemonade.”
“Well, I’m sure it doesn’t taste like piss either.”
“Try it.”
Mabel made a face before extending her cupped hand to capture some of the deluge. She sipped it and wiped her hand on the lace handkerchief she pulled from her pocket.
“I still don’t think it tastes like piss.”
“How would you know? You never tasted piss.”
“Neither have you.” She paused. “Maybe you have. I wouldn’t put it past you.”
“No, I haven’t. It’s a metaphor, anyway. It doesn’t have anything to do with taste.”
“You’re the one who tasted it in the first place.”
“Only because you,” Joe stopped and pursed his lips. “It’s a metaphor.”
“What do you mean a metaphor? A metaphor for what?”
“I don’t want to take the time to explain what a metaphor is.”
“I know what a metaphor is. I don’t know why you’d want to make a metaphor about God pissing on us.”
“Why shouldn’t God piss on me? Everybody else does.” Joe ducked his head and turned away.
“God is a spirit. God doesn’t drink so there’s no need to piss.”
“You are so literal.”
“And you are so—never mind.” Mabel stuck her hand out to get it wet again. “Anyway, I like it. I don’t think of it as piss. And nobody’s pissing on you.”
“Then how come I feel all wet and stinky?”
“If you feel stinky take a shower.”
“It’s a shower out there now, and I say it’s piss.”
“Now you’re pissing me off. We’re supposed to sing and dance in this stuff, you know, not complain about it.”
“You don’t even like to sing or dance, no matter what the weather is like. You don’t like to do a lot of things.”
Mabel sniffed. “It depends on the company.”
“There it goes again, pissing on me.”
“Nobody’s pissing on you.” Mabel’s voice intensified. “Not God, not me, nobody!”
A truck drove by, splashing Joe and Mabel. Each of them stepped back too late to keep from being soaked.
“Now we’re all wet,” Joe mumbled.
“I’ve known that for a long time.”
“I have too.”
“Once you’re all wet there’s nothing you can do about it,” Mabel replied with a sigh.
“Just stop pissing on yourself, I guess.”
The thunderstorm lightened to random drops. They looked up and down the street.
“Nothing left to do but go home and get dry,” Joe said, trying to keep his voice from cracking.
“Yep, get rid of the wet clothing and put on something dry and comfortable,” she agreed.
“It didn’t really taste like piss.”
“I know.”
Joe began to step away and looked over his shoulder. “I hope you never get wet again.”
“See you in church.”