My twisted brain wanted very much to make something obscene from this week's words. But I reined in the beast and came up with this, instead.
We were close to her place when the storm hit. But the rain fell so fast and hard that her flyaway hair was quickly plastered wet onto the sides of her head. In the gathering dark, her feathery locks were transformed into an oiled-looking mat.
We heard shouts from the other surprised pedestrians when sparks flew from a nearby transformer, and the gathering darkness suddenly deepened into inky gloom.
Finally, on her porch, she groped in her purse for the key, then exclaimed, "I've lost the key hole - oh, here it is."
When we were inside, she lit a few candles. I watched the scarlet flames flicker and sway while she examined herself in a mirror. Then she turned to me, wet, bedraggled and full of doubt.
"I am a sight," she said.
"No, my dear," I said, sweeping her into my arms, "You are a vision."