GILFWhen the weather changed, no one spoke to Anne of anything but the weather; the same conversation, all day, every day until the sun comes back. Glancing through the bakery window from time to time, he saw the rain falling like threads of mercury, exploding in black droplets on the sidewalk outside. Little drops of darkness, drops of darkness that keep us alive, that others in the far corners of the globe tempt with elaborate dances. Anne had seen them on the Discovery Channel tapping their leather feet on the scorched, cracked earth and waving rainsticks at the sun and sky. Without breeze to support the weight of a prayer, their cries fall, shattered, dry and trampled. If the rain showed, the locals would dance naked in the downpour, a cause for celebration and singing. The rain, Anne reflected as she arranged her baguettes, was just as misunderstood and unappreciated as she was. Anne only felt sad when it rained and nothing good ever happened on rainy days. Meanwhile, mothers evicted children from comfortable car seats into the deluge, while they themselves sat and watched their offspring from behind frantic windshield wipers. As the children struggled with stubborn umbrellas and millions of razor-sharp droplets falling from a murky, pregnant sky, the mother stared, the mummybot shut down for a few seconds; turned off. Anne wished she could unplug for a while too, just unplug for a while, but then who would plug her back in? Why would they have to plug it back in, to vacuum the living room, iron shirts, cook and find things? Would it have simply been forgotten and left under the stairs along with the other broken and unwanted appliances? Better stay connected then. Old women come in, old men come out, young mothers loa...... middle of paper ...... dare to enter. A guy like me likes you and asked me to tell you. So he's telling you now.' 'You don't know me,' said Anne. 'No but I'd like the chance to do it,' replied LuckAnne bit her lip and looked out; the rain had abandoned its hold on the day and given way to twilight, twilight came early in autumn. Anne it wasn't autumn yet, maybe late summer, but Luck was defiantly summer, maybe late spring? He thought of a poem by Henry Wordsworth: “True old age; and I do not love the man who can look without emotion into the sunset of life, when the evening twilight begins to gather upon the watery eyes, and the shadows of twilight grow wider and deeper in understanding.''My husband was killed by a "falling reptile" said Anne, he just came out. "Like Aeschylus?" “Yes, just like Aeschylus” They looked at each other, appreciated the moment and laughed.