The Blame Lies with the Rain
By mid-afternoon, the sky had darkened with thick clouds, and by evening, a light drizzle began to fall. In spring, the streets looked particularly dismal under the dreary rain.
Matthew had been driving around the city for over an hour, killing time before his departure. As evening set in, traffic thickened, forcing him to crawl through congested streets and wait at red lights. Time dragged, but he didn’t want to go home yet—nor was it time to head to the station.
He pulled over by the pavement and switched off the wipers. Tiny raindrops speckled the windshield like transparent beads, blurring the world beyond.
All week, he’d been recovering from Olivia leaving him. Even now, the pain hadn’t fully faded. If he stayed home, he’d have drunk himself to sleep again, just as he had every night since. Without wine, sleep was impossible.
They had lived together for nearly a year and dated for two months before that. At first, everything was perfect—better than perfect. He’d already started making plans—a summer trip to the coast, where he’d propose by the sea, despite their recent arguments. Olivia had been picking fights constantly, finding fault with everything, always angry, always demanding.
Just before she left, they’d argued about his International Women’s Day gift. A bouquet of tulips and the handbag she’d been eyeing for months—apparently, it wasn’t enough.
*You wanted that bag yourself,* Matthew had protested. *And it wasn’t exactly cheap.*
*I knew you’d get it. I thought you’d add something extra, something surprising. A real gift should be unexpected.*
*Sorry, should’ve read your mind,* he muttered bitterly.
*Was it really so hard to figure out?*
And off she went again. She accused him of being clueless, of not earning enough. *David bought Sophie a fur coat. Emma’s boyfriend gave her a diamond ring.*
*David’s a crook. That money’s dirty, and you know it.*
*So what? At least she gets nice things. European holidays, designer clothes. You’re so bloody principled—no wonder we’re broke.*
*We’re not broke. I was going to give you a ring—just not yet. And who needs a fur coat in spring? He probably got it half-price in a sale.*
*Are you stupid, or are you pretending?* Her voice was sharp, brittle like glass in the wind.
Matthew knew why they fought—he just didn’t want to believe it. They’d argued before, but they always made up at night. That time, though, Olivia rolled away when he tried to hold her, smacking his hand.
The next morning, silence. He called her all day, but she ignored him, then turned off her phone. By evening, he couldn’t take it. On the way home, he bought flowers—only to find an empty flat and a note.
Olivia had written she was sick of it all, that she’d had enough. She wanted someone who’d lay the world at her feet. Her clothes were gone, along with the suitcase from their holiday.
Matthew stormed through the flat, hurling anything within reach—especially the little things Olivia had left behind, things she’d abandoned in her rush to a richer life. He stuffed them all into a bin bag—her toothbrush, her cream, the robe still hanging in the bathroom—and dumped it outside.
The worst part? She hadn’t just left—she’d left *for someone else*, making him out to be a failure. That’s exactly how he felt. He couldn’t sleep—her scent still clung to the pillows, suffocating him. He grabbed a bottle and downed a glass of wine. It didn’t help much, but he managed a few hours of restless sleep.
It went on like that all week. By the time he dragged himself to work, dark circles framed his eyes. His boss took pity, sending him to London for a two-week training course—a chance to heal.
*Get some distance. Clear your head. Come back sharp.*
After work, Matthew packed a bag, threw it in the boot, and drove aimlessly through the city. Rain blurred the windows, turning the world outside into smudges of headlights.
He rolled down the window and spotted a café sign. He imagined the warm glow inside—soft chatter, quiet music. Exactly what he needed. He parked and walked in. The place wasn’t crowded, but every table was taken. He slid onto a bar stool and asked for coffee.
*We don’t serve coffee at the bar. Take a seat, and a waiter will bring it.*
*Right.* He scanned the room, looking for somewhere to sit.
Near the bar, a girl sat alone, stirring her drink absently. Dark hair pulled into a ponytail, delicate features, eyes—he couldn’t see them yet. She was staring into her cup. Slim jeans and a fitted jumper hugged her frame.
*I wonder what colour her eyes are.* He *had* to know. For some reason, he was sure she wouldn’t send him away. He walked over.
*Mind if I join you?* He sat without waiting.
She looked up. Green. *Olivia’s were brown.*
*You already sat down.*
A waiter appeared with menus.
*Black coffee, no sugar.* He glanced at her cup. *Make that two.*
*I didn’t ask you to.*
*Cold coffee’s revolting. He didn’t show?*
*Who?*
*Whoever you were waiting for.*
*None of your business.*
*You look sad.*
*Friend.*
*What?*
*I was waiting for a friend.*
The waiter replaced her half-finished cup with fresh coffee and left.
Matthew took a sip. *Not bad. I’m Matthew. You?*
*Is this a pick-up?*
*Suppose so.*
*Eleanor.*
*Listen, Eleanor. Fancy a drive? The city at night—rain, lights—it’s beautiful. I’ll drop you home after. My girl left me. Train’s not till later—got hours to kill.*
She studied him, weighing honesty. *Sizing me up.*
*I’m not lying. You’re in no rush either, or you wouldn’t be here. So? Not a psychopath—decent guy, promise.*
*Why’d she leave, then, decent guy?*
*Didn’t leave. Upgraded.*
Eleanor hesitated, then nodded. *Alright. Let’s go.*
The rain thickened. They sprinted to the car.
*Seatbelt. I’ll show you the city.*
*Funny. I was born here.*
*A different city, then. Bet you’ve never seen it like this.*
As they drove, he pointed out buildings, sharing little-known facts.
*How do you know all this? Tour guide?*
*First—let’s drop the formalities. We’re in a car—practically intimate. Second—my ex was a tour guide.*
He could’ve lied, claimed he’d read up on history. He would have, before. But Eleanor wasn’t like other girls. He didn’t need to impress her—just wanted company.
They looped the city twice before he turned on the radio. Soon, they were singing along—badly, loudly—to some old rock song, laughing when it ended.
*Time to get you home. Where to? Train’s in two hours.*
*Where are you going?*
*London. If I’d known I’d meet you, I’d have cancelled. I’ll be back in two weeks.*
*What do you do?*
*Advertising. You?*
*Bank. That’s my place.* Her mood dimmed. *You know what? Let me see you off.*
*You already have.*
*No—walking you to the train. You board, I’ll wave as it pulls away.*
*Romantic. No one’s ever done that.* He smiled. *But you’ll have to get home alone.*
*Plenty of cabs at the station.*
They drove to the terminal. The waiting area was near-empty. Olivia would never have come—she’d have stayed home. Eleanor was different. Easy to be around. No games, no need to perform.
The train’s arrival echoed through the station.
*Script says I should kiss you and say something profound.*
*So say it.*
*Can I?* He leaned in, brushing his lips against hers.
She didn’t pull away—she leaned into it.
*Now, as a gentleman, I have to marry you. Two weeks. Wait for me?*
*Will you come back?*
Platform lights glittered in her eyes. He didn’t answer—the train roared in, cutting them off. They sprinted along the carriages, hunting his seat.
*I’ll be back soon. Deal?* he shouted from the doorway.
*To what?*
The door slammed. The train lurched forward.
Eleanor kept pace, waving until she vanished into the dark.
In London, timeThe rain had brought them together, and now, as he stepped off the train two weeks later with a ring in his pocket, he knew it had been worth every storm.
