Real

The day opens with fiery pink clouds, a river of color flowing across the sky as a front moves in.  High, between the buildings, they drift and undulate in the wind, a billowing curtain, where the rain falls but doesn't land.  Dramatic promise.

When I look out the window a little later, it's gray and overcast.

Lunch.  Pho.  Group table.  No one talking to anyone else.  All lean over hot bowls of noodles and look straight ahead.  Brows sweating, faces red, from lingering illness or perhaps too much pepper in the soup.

Walking out to leave, my luck with rain has run out:  I'm soaked when I get back to work.  And I've misplaced Orwell, with less than 40 pages to go.

It's official now, promotional materials being made.  Need to decide and run with it.