The rain sits down next to me, asks me for a light.
I'm sorry, but I don't think it'd work with you here.
A fishing pole throws its line into the puddle forming near the bench we are sitting on.
It's no problem -- I get that a lot. Hmm, wonder what's being fished for.
Splashes surround the puddle. Out jumps a fish, a scaly green and shallow purple. It flips from side to side, playing a crooked hopscotch, until it plops up and starts walking toward the pole.
Thanks for the lift! I appreciate you coming to get me on such short notice.
The fishing pole retracts its line, making a whirring noise that seems to say "You're welcome."
It is, after all, the holidays.
