The weather has ruined one or two promising relationships. One day you’re sitting at the coffee shop reveling in how your tastes seem to mesh, and after the weekend hike, you run over to her house to pick up the spare shirt and toothbrush you’d left at her apartment. She’s “not there” when you arrive, and your stuff is in a paper shopping bag with your name written on it in the precise architectural lettering you had found so enchanting just last week.
Why? A sudden realization that you detested the other’s favorite weather. She found misty, cool weather romantic. You found it to be suitable only for a muskrat on the prowl. You found a bright sunfilled day perfect for hiking. She preferred to lie in the sleeping bag till noon, masked against any sun intrusion.
You softly suggested that your taste was the prevalent preference for hiking. she rolled over and muttered something about what she had ever seen in you.
It was a chilly ride back to Boston, and the weather forecast called for precipitation.