She stood in the rain,
Her “Canada” poncho saving her dress,
But not her pride.

It was at that moment of self-defeat,
as she realized the truth,
that she sank to the curb,
sobbing.

Why?
Why had she come?
What had possessed her to think...
He would come?

Him,
A drummer,
and her,
a clarinet.
Stupid.

As she sat in the cold,
brownish mascara personifying her mood,
and colouring her flushed cheeks.
She remembered...

He had visited her.
Him, a drummer,
and her,
an upper woodwind.

"Do you want to hang out?"
he had asked.
She, a clarinet, had nodded,
a little too enthusiastically.

And now she was...
humiliated,
rejected,
wet.

She squinted her eyes.
Could it be-
yes!
A van!

Her heart soared.
He was late,
not horrible!
Tardy,
but incredible.

Quickly she stood,
smoothly patting her dress,
and wiping her face.

The blue door swung open.

Her heart sank.

Waving to her,
From inside of the small,
Less-than-glamorous,
dented minivan,
were her four best friends,
come to rescue her from the cold.

She blinked back tears,
as they pulled her in,
a little to understanding.

And then she spotted it;
A little yellow box of cardboard,
Of gold,
Of Tim Horton's timbits.

And suddenly the world seemed less harsh.