In Case it Rains

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He walks alone across the sandy beach, in his old, tattered suit, his eyes cast dejectedly to the sandy shore, holding the black umbrella above his head.

—Who is that strange man, asked Mr. Earwicker, —who walks alone across the sand beach, his eyes cast dejectedly to the sandy shore, not even caring a whit to look upon God’s wondrous creation?

—He walks alone, said Mr. Estragon, —never caring a whit to look upon God’s wondrous creation, holding the umbrella above his head, to remember her. To remember, and to forget.

As he walks upon the sandy shore, he tries to remember her. And he tries to forget her.

—Her? asked Mr. Earwicker.

—Yes, said Mr. Estragon. —There was a woman, once. He used to live alone on the shore of the sandy beach, alone with his thoughts. His only companions were the birds of the sky, the crickets of the land, and the walruses of the sea. Their symphonies fed his soul like the pap of heaven.

He remembers a time before she came to him, when he lived alone on the shore of the sandy beach, alone with his thoughts. He would perform somersaults, drop his stick on the ground and pick it up again, and take naps as his friends, the birds of the sky, the crickets of the land and the walruses of the sea all sang him symphonies that sounded similar to the music of the spheres, but a little better.

—He would live this way in peace for many years, said Vladimir Estragon, —until she came to him.

—She? asked Mr. Earwicker.

—Yes, said Mr. Estragon. —There was a woman, once. When he saw her face, he knew love for the very first time. He knew that his heart would belong to her for the end of time itself.

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He remembers seeing her face for the first time, and knowing love. He remembers raising his head from the sandy shore after one of his thirty-five minute naps, and seeing her long satin gown flowing in the wind, her long, bushy beard also flowing in the wind, the rest of her face covered by her sunglasses and her cowboy hat. He knew that his heart would belong to her for the end of time itself.

—They spent their days together in perpetual bliss, said Mr. Estragon, —ever suckling upon the teats of delight.

He remembers the days they spent together in perpetual bliss, ever suckling upon the teats of delight. He would perform somersaults, drop his stick on the ground and pick it up again, and take naps as his friends, the birds of the sky, the crickets of the land and the walruses of the sea all sang him symphonies that sounded similar to the music of the spheres, but a little better. Meanwhile she would dance, her satin dress and her beard swaying in the wind.

—But as with all good things, said Mr. Estragon, —their bliss had to come to an end.

—You don’t mean, Mr. Earwicker attempted to ask before trailing off in a whimper of regret.

—Yes, said Mr. Estragon. —It was on a day much like this one, in fact. They had been as happy as ever on this day. But all was not well. Though she loved him truly, she realized on that day that he could not stop.

—He could not stop what? asked Mr. Earwicker.

—Being, replied Mr. Estragon.

He remembers the day she left him. He remembers raising his head from the sandy shore after a thirty-five minute nap and looking to his side. She was not by his side. The birds of the sky, the crickets of the land and the walruses of the sea were weeping. He wept.

—No one knows where the woman went that day, said Mr. Estragon. —When he saw that the budding flower of his delight had vanished, he let out a terrible scream.

—Yes, I remember that very howl, said Mr. Earwicker. —I had awoken from my slumber on that day and truly thought that the end of days had arrived, at last.

—Yes, said Mr. Estragon. —It was said that the devil himself, when he heard the bellowing din, covered his ears and said, ouch, that hurt my ears.

He remembers letting out a terrible scream. The birds of the sky, the crickets of the land, the walruses of the sea, and the devil himself, when they heard the bellowing din, covered their ears and said ouch, that hurt my ears. She was not there.

—So why does he carry the black umbrella above his head? asked Mr. Earwicker.

—She gave it to him, said Mr. Estragon. —It was all she left for him. He walks along the shore of the sandy beach with his umbrella, shielding himself from the tears of God. He walks along the shore to bring her back, and he casts his eyes dejectedly onto the ground, because he knows that she is not anywhere else.

He remembers the day he finds the black umbrella she left for him. He opens it, lifts it above his head and walks upon the sandy shore of the beach, shielding himself from the tears of God, walking along the shore to bring her back, casting his eyes dejectedly onto the ground, because he knows that she is not anywhere else.

—So sad, said Mr. Earwicker.

—Yes, said Mr. Estragon, —but when I think about all the wonderful things in the world that God has given us, I truly feel better than the man who has made love to all the angels of paradise.

—Yes, said Mr. Earwicker.

He walks across the sandy beach, in his old, tattered three-piece suit, his eyes cast dejectedly on the sandy shore, holding the black umbrella above his head. He stops. He sees a long, pink satin dress flowing in the wind, a long brown beard also flowing in the wind, a pair of sunglasses obscuring a face, a cowboy hat covering a head. He says nothing, stares longingly at his love. She says nothing, stares longingly at her love.

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They spend the rest of their days taking naps, doing somersaults, picking up a stick and dropping it back on the ground, dancing as the pink satin dress, the long brown beard, and the old tattered three-piece suit sways in the wind, as the birds of the sky, the crickets of the land, and the walruses of the sea sang them symphonies that sounded as of the music of the spheres, but a little better.

—Well, how about that, said Mr. Earwicker. —Funny how things work out sometimes.

—Yes, said Mr. Estragon. —So, I was thinking, if you weren’t busy, would you like to fuck my sister so we can both be brother-in-laws?

—Okay, said Mr. Earwicker.

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