Читать книгу The Milk Chicken Bomb - Andrew Wedderburn - Страница 15

It starts to rain. Rains and rains, for days. Nobody can say why. On Main Street people stand around under the eaves of their shops, in heavy winter jackets, holding newspapers over their heads. People watch the rain and talk about it. No sign of stopping, they say, no sign at all. It rains and the rain freezes; ice floats in puddles in the gutters. Ice on the picnic tables. The doors of people’s cars won’t open, on account of the ice. Mullen and I get a patio umbrella from the Russians, for the lemonade stand. A picture of a sunset on top.