The same shot as image 1, in exactly the same drawing style, with exactly the same camera, framing, lamppost, window, awning, café table, chairs and coffee cup, and the same two characters in the same places, but some time later in a storm: dark sky, cold blue-grey light, heavy rain pouring straight down, wet shining stone and puddles, a big black storm cloud hanging low right above the woman's head, raining on everything. The woman sits on the same chair, legs crossed, soaked, a few wet strands of black hair stuck to her cheeks, arms still crossed, but now she has turned to face the man and is desperately trying not to laugh: lips pressed tightly together, cheeks puffed out, eyes squeezed and watering, shoulders hunched and trembling. The man stands next to the table, completely soaked, his copper hair flattened and dripping, no umbrella, holding a charred black rose stem with a burnt bud in his right hand, and he is pulling a ridiculous face at her: eyes crossed, tongue sticking out, eyebrows high, his left thumb in his ear with the fingers waggling. Each has exactly two arms and two hands, five fingers each. No text, no letters.
