It was one of those hail showers you only ever read about. Stones as big as golf-balls. And I’m sprinting down the laneway with my arms covering my head and not a tree in sight. My feet keep slipping and sliding on the hail that’s like spilt marbles all over the road.
Eventually I reach a car pulled in at a gate and wrench at the locked doors before easing myself underneath. There’s a girl already there, watching me with a panicked expression. Dark hair and darker eyes. After the initial shock she tells me I’m bleeding but I investigate with my fingers and it doesn’t feel too bad.
There isn’t much to talk about under the car, so we just lie there and let the melting hail soak up into our clothes and exchange gasps. The stones make the most ferocious clanging on the roof of the car, but the windows hold out for the few minutes it takes to stop.
We climb out and she examines the bruises on my back and shoulders. Down the road we find a pub with a fire, and drink hot whiskies and introduce ourselves.
And that’s the story of how I met my wife. The story I tell at any rate. The story she tells is something less elaborate involving the local film club. Plausible I suppose. We both like the cinema. The truth is I don’t think either of us remembers exactly how we met. We were both very drunk at the time.