Summary
The night my boyfriend stood me up for the third time, it was pouring rain.
I stood outside the subway entrance and called him seventeen times.
I never made the eighteenth call.
The Black Umbrella in my hand suddenly snapped open on its own. Its handle twisted around and lightly tapped me on the forehead.
“Stop calling.”
I was so startled I nearly threw it away.
The canopy shook off a spray of water, its voice ice-cold.
“He’s with someone else.”
“Also, your eyeliner’s smudged.”