Hesta, garbed in a silk skirt and blouse, burgundy clogs, and cream-colored socks that matched her legs, placed her usual phone call to Thorndike during her stroll home from work yesterday. After hanging up, she noticed black thunderheads movin' in, so she hastened her gait toward home. She reached the bottom of the hill at the art museum and, hearing a faint whisper of distant thunder, started running like a madwoman up 24th Street, her polyurethane purse and Shaw's Wild Harvest bag flapping about at her rear. Hesta's frenzied stampede carried her, sweat pouring down her tomato-toned face and maw agape, past myriad blissful couples and groups seated at outdoor cafes. When she arrived at her front door, she felt the sky secrete the first droplets of rain.
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