Rain drops run my mascara

   I landed in the dirty water that puddled in the gutter of the old brick street. The rain poured relentlessly and I had no umbrella. My hair flattened against my skin, trails of black dripped down my face from my mascara, and my feet were freezing and soggy inside my ruined pumps.
   An old man with a long white beard rounded the corner across the street, a big black umbrella sheltering him. With a glance in my direction, he saw me sitting on my knees in the gutter and rushed over. He leaned over and helped me to my feet, surprising me with the strength of his frail body, and insisted he’d walk me home.
   With one hand on the umbrella that protected us from the rain and his other arm around my shoulders to help keep me warm, the old man distracted me from shivering as he talked about his grandchildren.
   When we stood at my door, he handed me that big black umbrella, and said, “I hope it treats you as well as it has treated me.” He smiled and walked off into the downpour.