A San Francisco socialite caught in the rain dubiously grinned and threw her crimson coat to the left leaning winds. She laughed and held her palms to the sky, and the little dust centered droplets struck her golden locks as innumerable acts of eternal defiance. She kicked up her spirits and dug her heels into a nearby bar to partake in even more spirits. With friends around, she laughed and cried so hard that her muscles ached for days. A whiskey and pepper is also she asked for and the handsome bartender was always more than happy to oblige. It was a night to remember.
The bay glistened in with the reflection of the moon and the rain hardened and ebbed like the lunar tides—always contracting and blissfully reacting to its carnal urges. The red-heeled woman followed suit and fell backwards into a waiting pool only conceived by a deity awaiting her fall. She collapsed into the still sea. Flashes of red emanated from her. She glowed. The onlookers watched a moment nestled within another moment—all in slow motion. The VCR hit play as she bobbed back and everyone cheered at her laughter, held a beer in salute, and dived into the infinity with her. It was evening destined to be heavenly and on a level only imagined by prophetic poets. They scribble away trying to capture a scene that could only be captured by the human experience. No amount of skill or technology could replicate the night that began in rain and ended in liquid laughter.