Sometimes it’s better to get wet

Regina spotted children’s clothing in a consignment shop that she needed to inspect after we had lunch at All-Wright’s Pastry Shop.

She gave me permission to walk ahead while she had her dessert — shopping for pretty dresses for little girls.

She never saw the storm clouds hanging in the West. I did, so I hustled back to work.

“It is raining hard. Will you come and get me?” she asked, when she telephoned me 20 minutes later.

“But I will get wet going to the car,” I said. “Why don’t you wait a few minutes then call me back? It won’t last long.”

Then I remembered Fran.

I remembered how getting wet isn’t nearly as bad for you as it is if you allow a woman to get soaked.

So out the front door I trotted, umbrella raised.

Fran was a college girlfriend who never forgave me for not answering her call to downtown Tuscaloosa and rescuing her and a friend from a downpour.

The call was her way of us getting back together after a fight. I was suspicious. I told myself she just needed a ride.

Fran didn’t like me much after that, and I couldn’t blame her. I should have gotten wet.

That, and a dozen or more other reasons are why I drove to Moulton Street last week.

Regina thanked me for coming, and I thanked her for not setting out on foot for the office and getting herself all wet.

I muttered something about Fran and learning that lesson years ago.

She never asked about Fran or my lesson. If she had, I would have told her that I wanted her to continue speaking to me.

But I probably have the good deal at the consignment shop to thank for my luck: She was still buying when I arrived and honked the horn.