The Weather Is Terrible for Getting Over You

How it begins

The festival's inflatable sun had escaped.

Lena photographed it passing the library.

Behind her, Hugh shouted instructions into a radio with the grim patience of a man who had previously trusted a weather forecast.

She took another picture.

"Could you help?"

He had recognized her before she turned.

That was annoying.

She had rehearsed the reunion on the train. Something brief, adult, and free of the particular expression he used when she was enjoying a problem he had to solve.

The sun bounced against a parked van.

Lena caught its tether.

Hugh reached her a moment later, breathless.

For several seconds they held opposite ends of the same rope.

"Welcome home," he said.

"I'm working."

"Of course."

Rain began.

Not impressive rain. Not the dramatic sky she had crossed half the country to photograph. Just a steady coastal inconvenience that would make every event slightly worse.

Hugh looked upward.

Lena looked at him.

He had more gray in his hair.

She disliked noticing.

"Where do you want this?" she asked.

"Somewhere without weather."

"Ambitious."

He almost smiled.

The radio crackled. A volunteer announced that the children's puppet stage had lost its roof.

Hugh closed his eyes.

Lena wound the tether around its handle.

"I can help with the stage."

"You're here to photograph."

"I can do two things."

"I remember."

There it was.

Not an accusation exactly.

A whole summer folded into three words.

Lena set down her camera case.

The last time she had left, Hugh had driven her to the station and asked no questions. She had mistaken that for not having any.

Now he stood in the rain holding a ridiculous sun, refusing to ask whether she was staying.

"Start with the puppets," she said.

He looked at the case on the ground.

Then he handed her the radio.

For the first time that morning, the weather had given them something practical to say.