All day the battle raged between man and storm. Surrounded by rain, man brought out his best ally, the umbrella. But the rain was tricky. It slid in sideways and up underneath the umbrella and crept into man’s shoes and socks. Rain’s ally, wind, sent surprise gusts tearing around corners to render all umbrellas useless and defeat even the bravest of men.
At the end of the day, the outcome was clear. Dead umbrellas lay everywhere, the city a graveyard of martyrs. They hung out of trash cans, dismembered, blown inside out, their nylon skins torn away from metal bones, their joints bent in uncomfortable directions. Sometimes just parts of them were found, scattered on the ground in the parks, thrown into corners on the streets, wet and muddy.
In the stores the backup troops stand at the ready, new and shiny and strong. Sometimes the injured can even recover and be put back into the field again, taped up and sewn up though still with the scars of battle. But the victor could not be denied; today in Santiago, the score was rain: 1, man: 0. Even so, this was just a battle, not the war, and as they say in these kinds of things, this is only the beginning.
* * *
It was a miserable day.