Would Seattlites even notice rain on a wedding day?

I’m reading on the front porch during rush hour, with the I-5 groaning on the other side of the street. A guy, long-sleeved green sweatshirt and shaggy beard, starts to walk by with a dog. I nod hello and go back to the book.

Then he starts up the stairs. “You got any…” — I’m caught between shrugging that I’ve got no change and flinching away from the intrusion — “… nugs of ganja here, man?”

I suppress a laugh. Nah, nothing man, sorry. He pulls out his medical card; I pet the dog; he talks about the dispensary he’s planning. The dog decides to move on.

He starts down the steps, sees the book in my lap. “Study hard. Cheat if you have to – everyone else does.”

“Nah, I’m graduated, I’m just reading this for fun.”

He pauses. “Cheat anyways.”

You have my permission to cite this as an example, because this is a Mirriam-Webster-class example of dramatic irony: when a middle-aged stoner, living in an illegally-parked mobile home, who most definitely never saw the cover of your book, gives you permission to skim-read Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged.