**Rain Brings Happiness**
After a scorching summer, a chilly and damp autumn arrived, with biting winds and endless rain.
On her way home, tired of the wind and dreary drizzle, Polly stopped at a shop to escape the foul weather and pick up something for dinner. It was warm, bright, and dry inside. She moved slowly between the shelves, examining the packages.
Polly filled her basket with groceries—lemons and a bunch of grapes from the produce section. She imagined herself curled up on the sofa, sipping hot tea with lemon, plucking ripe grapes and popping them into her mouth. Maybe even a glass of wine to warm up quicker.
Pausing at the deli counter, she deliberated over sausages. Right now, she could eat anything; she hadn’t had a bite all morning. Swallowing hard, she reached for a pack of sausage—no cooking needed. Just then, her hand brushed against another reaching for the same item.
She pulled back, turning to see a tall, handsome man beside her. Stylishly cut dark hair with hints of silver at the temples, warm brown eyes, full lips. And a black overcoat. Everything she liked.
“Sorry,” he said, flashing a perfect, white-toothed smile.
*Hollywood could retire. Did men like him really shop here for sausage?* Heat rushed to her cheeks. She forced herself to look away and moved to the checkout. *Stop staring like a lovesick fool.*
Catching her reflection in the drink fridge, she winced. *Good grief, what a mess. What must he think? Not that it matters. His world isn’t mine.* She unloaded her basket onto the conveyor. Someone beside her placed identical items—plus the sausage.
“Seems we have similar tastes, don’t you think?”
Polly turned to see him again, that dazzling smile in place.
“Hardly. Half the shoppers here have the same things,” she muttered, suddenly hyperaware of her wind-tousled hair.
“Fair point,” he conceded.
*Meanwhile, I look like a drowned rat, and he stepped out of a salon.* She imagined running her fingers through his thick hair, then scoffed at herself. *Pull it together. He’s out of your league.*
After paying, she marched outside, where a gust of wind slapped her face as if punishing her for hiding indoors. The shop door swung open behind her.
“Not exactly stroll weather. Do you live nearby?” he asked, stepping out.
“Why?” she said warily.
“I’ve got my car. Could give you a lift.”
Polly hesitated. *Probably knows exactly how his looks affect women. Doesn’t seem like a creep… then again, would I even know?* An inner voice nagged: *Take the ride. Don’t be daft.*
*Even if he is a creep, at least he’s a handsome one.* Amused, she relented. He opened the passenger door.
“Here—let me take your bag. More comfortable that way.”
The car was warm, dry, and quiet. As the engine purred to life, he glanced at her. “Where to?”
“16 Oak Lane. Near the station.”
“I know it,” he said, pulling away.
Polly watched the wind batter pedestrians outside, stealing glances at his hands on the wheel—steady, assured. *Perfect. And after this, you’ll never see him again.*
“I’m James. You?”
“Polly,” she said, stifling the urge to act coy.
“Lovely name. Reminds me of a girl in primary school. Promised to marry her.”
“Did you?”
“Well… it *was* primary school.”
Only then did Polly notice the soft classical music playing. Had it been on the whole time? She shifted, settling deeper into the seat.
“Which block?” James asked.
She blinked—they’d arrived. *Daydreaming already? Get a grip.*
As she stepped out, wind whipping her hair, he called, “Your groceries!” He handed her the bag, fingers brushing hers.
“Thanks,” she mumbled, avoiding his eyes as she hurried inside.
Fumbling with her keys, she finally slipped into the lobby and exhaled. Peeking back, she saw his car still idling, waiting until she was safe.
*Who am I kidding? Men like him don’t stay single. Probably married to some goddess with mini-mes at home.*
Days passed, but she didn’t see him again—until his car appeared outside her building. *Am I imagining it?*
James stepped out. “Been waiting for you, Polly.”
“Why?”
“Couldn’t forget you.”
“Still hung up on that schoolgirl crush?” she teased, instantly regretting it.
“Maybe,” he echoed, smirking. “You’re only the second Polly I’ve met. Feels like fate. It’s freezing—get in.”
She should invite him up. But why? Instead, she slid into the familiar warmth of his car, the scent of leather and his cologne wrapping around her.
“University student?”
“No, I work. An optometrist.”
“Interesting. Giving people sight.”
“Just testing it. You?”
“Engineer. Boring stuff. Fancy coffee?”
*Only an idiot would say no.*
Over lattes, they chatted easily. Polly melted under his gaze but stayed sharp, lobbing direct questions.
“You married?”
A pause. “Divorced. You seeing anyone?”
“Not currently,” she said coyly.
He drove her home, took her hand. When he leaned in, Polly yanked free and bolted.
In the lift, she cursed herself. *Such a man, and you play hard to get?*
By the third date, she invited him upstairs, pulling him close before he could remove his coat…
Later, curled against him, she envied her own happiness. He never stayed the night—fine by her; mornings weren’t her best look. But she replayed every touch, every word, struggling to sleep.
He visited twice a week, rarely sleeping over. Polly knew a man like him wouldn’t lack company. *Probably married.* No ring, though. Still, when he was there, nothing else mattered.
Time deepened her love—and her jealousy. She craved all of him.
Finally, she asked outright: “Are you married?”
“Told you, divorced.”
“Then why never stay? Why so secretive?”
He sighed. “My ex… she drinks. Badly. We’re separated, but the flat’s mine. I can’t kick her out—she’d spiral.”
Polly didn’t buy it. But leaving him felt impossible.
She confided in a colleague, who urged caution. “Men like that don’t tolerate misery. Get his address—my mate at the station can check.”
Days later, Polly stood outside his home. A pretty blonde answered, then dashed off at a child’s cry.
Polly entered, fabricating a clinic visit. The woman—older, sober, *not* a drunk—explained they’d missed an appointment during heavy rain.
“Does your husband travel often?” Polly croaked.
“Not too much, but with another baby coming, I wish he’d change jobs.”
Polly fled.
In a cab, she texted James: *Don’t contact me again. Liar.* Blocked his number. *First step done.*
Work was agony. At home, she sobbed into wine he’d left.
Next day, she smiled at Steven, the shy surgeon who’d always fancied her.
“Fancy the cinema? Been ages,” she trilled.
They went. He stayed over. Polly tried to forget James, but some hurts linger.
Spring came. Life—and love—bloomed anew. Steven proposed. Polly said yes. *Why wait?*
James never called.
Their June wedding was rain-soaked. “Luck and riches,” guests cheered.
A year later, baby Olivia arrived.
At her check-up, Polly spotted James’s wife—then James himself. He approached as she left.
“Polly, I’m—”
“Sorry, I’m in a rush,” she cut in, bundling Olivia into Steven’s waiting car.
As they drove off, an old song played: *”I’ll find love beyond the bend…”*
James stood alone, watching.
That night, Polly clung to Steven. “I love you.”
“Thought you’d never say it,” he murmured, holding her tight.
“Every day from now on.”
Some loves heal. Others remain bittersweet—like rain, fleeting yet essential.
