Rain is threatening as the woman leaves her office. She has no umbrella and there is a bus waiting outside, the queue making its slow, shuffling way onboard. But the bus will be packed and noisy and moist, and the woman strides on, opting to take her chances with the weather instead. When she is halfway home, the sky, tiring of its burden, tips and empties, and soon the road is a river and the woman’s flimsy summer pumps are as soft and useless as wet cardboard. A bus sloshes past, and she curses herself. Then the sun appears, and all of a sudden – a rainbow. Not in the sky, but hovering just above the road, shimmering against the spray from the passing cars. She is the only one who seems to see it, all other heads being bent beneath the rain, and she stops to watch it. Until a red light halts the flow of traffic, and the rainbow is gone. The rain continues, and the woman walks on. At home, when she is peeling off her sodden clothes, she reflects that she is glad she chose to walk past the bus stop this evening. Because she could have avoided the soaking, but not without missing the rainbow.