AFTER the film, Addie stands under the dripping marquee and shakes open her cheap umbrella, a simple move that attracts the attention of a man loitering by his BMW. He saunters over to her with the breezy confidence of a local somebody, plucks the red plastic coffee stirrer from his mouth and tucks it in his breast pocket. A weird gesture, she thinks, a bit gross, but kind of endearing.
“Your umbrella’s shot,” he says.
Addie nods and looks down at her cellphone. No missed messages. It’s definitely on, but nobody has called.
