**Under the Rain of Loneliness**
My wife, Emily, had started acting strangely. One day, she flew into a rage over nothing—accusing me of every sin under the sun. A plate left unwashed, socks misplaced, promises forgotten. She’d had enough of cleaning up after me, she said. And worst of all, I couldn’t afford a new car. John began to suspect it wasn’t about him. The sudden trips to the gym, the new wardrobe—none of it was for him. And then Emily left for another man.
A year passed. One morning, the doorbell woke me. Pulling on my dressing gown, I shuffled to the hall, opened the door, and froze.
A heavy grey cloud crept across the sky, like an unseen hand smothering the light. Fat raindrops drummed against the windscreen as I drove through the quiet streets of a historic town by the River Thames. The storm grew fiercer, the wind howling louder. Inside the car, the heater hummed, the radio murmured a tune, but beyond the glass lay a cold, aching emptiness that seeped into my bones.
The streets were deserted—only the occasional car sped past, growing fewer by the minute. How many laps had I done around town? The house felt stifling. My feet had led me to the car of their own accord. I always thought best behind the wheel, piecing my life together like a puzzle missing its key fragments. Turning onto a narrow lane, I moved further from the centre, from the home that still echoed with ghosts.
Emily had returned a week ago. Her reappearance stirred old wounds, ripped off the scabs. She thought I’d melt at her tears, forgive the betrayal, forget the insults. When she left, she’d poured every cruelty over me—loser, worthless, a failure. Could you forget that?
A year ago, she’d picked a fight from thin air. Screamed about the mess I left, the promises unkept, the life I couldn’t give her. “Four years without a holiday abroad! Another bloody summer without the sea!” she’d spat in my face. “I’m leaving for someone who can give me that.” I’d guessed her sudden gym visits and new dresses weren’t for me. At home, she’d slouched in a frayed robe, bare-faced; outside, she glowed. I didn’t stop her. The pain was savage, but I survived. A few nights drinking with mates, then I pulled myself together. Eventually, it faded.
At work, the women perked up when they heard I was single. They didn’t need grand gifts or foreign getaways—just a man who’d stay. And I was a catch: fit, with a flat, a car, no alimony. But none touched my heart. I wasn’t against love, but the spark never came. Even friends drifted—their wives wary I’d lure their husbands into mischief. I visited, but always returned to an empty flat where no one waited.
We’d never had children. I hadn’t worried—these things take time. Emily had even seen doctors. All fine, they said. But in the divorce, she’d hissed, “You’re bloody useless. Couldn’t even pick a wife who could give you a child.” That one cut deep. And yet, if she’d stayed, I might have forgiven her. But she left.
Then, a year later, the doorbell rang. Emily stood there, tear-streaked, begging forgiveness. “I was wrong. I love you,” she pleaded, clinging to me. I told her I’d forgiven—but I’d never forget. How could I take back the woman who’d walked out for another, only to crawl home when he’d tossed her aside? “Would you have taken me back if I’d left?” I asked. Silence. As she left, I told her to take her things and vanish. “I’ve nowhere to go,” she whispered. “What about your mum’s in Cornwall?” I shot back.
That day, like today, I’d driven in circles until exhaustion won. I’d decided: if she was home when I returned, I’d try again. Maybe habit would win. But the flat was empty. I wasn’t even upset. Deep down, I knew—she’d come back out of desperation, then leave again when someone better turned up. How could trust survive that?
The rain thickened, the wipers struggling against the deluge. I drove on, arguing silently with myself. One more lap, a stop for fuel, then home. At the traffic lights, I braked. Then I saw her—a woman beneath a tree, drenched, staring blankly ahead. The leaves offered no shelter. The light would turn green soon, yet she stood frozen. Waiting? Or lost, like I’d once been?
The light changed. I drove past—then reversed. Lowering the window, I beeped. She didn’t move. “Need a lift?” I called. Slowly, she turned. Rain or tears on her face? “I can’t stay here,” I pressed. She shuffled over, slid inside. Her lips trembled—no smile came. “Seat’ll be soaked,” I thought, switching on the heated seats.
She brushed wet hair back, tugging her dress over her knees—fabric clinging. “Tissues in the glovebox,” I said, pulling away. She dabbed her face. We drove in silence. “Where to?” I finally asked. “Nowhere,” she murmured. Her voice was soft, but hollow. “Brilliant,” I thought. “The station,” she added. “Right. Running from your husband? Off to Mum’s? Where’s your luggage?” Her startled look caught me. “He left two years ago. Mum’s gone—heart attack, six months after. Friends… vanished when I needed money. Now they ring, scared I’ll ask again. But I don’t need it now.”
I floundered. “Your daughter—she recovered?” I guessed. “No. I sold my flat for Swiss treatment. Didn’t save her. I couldn’t do anything.” Her eyes were dry, but the grief in them was bottomless. “How old?” “Thirteen tomorrow. I bought tickets to the seaside—her dream. Wanted her to fight.” “Got them with you?” “Yes, for the morning.” I said nothing. What could I say? I had a home, a job, my health. She’d lost everything. How did she even breathe?
“No kids myself,” I offered. “Wife got pregnant by someone else in university—aborted it. Told me during the divorce, to hurt me. Called me a failure, left for a banker.” I spotted a service station. “Fancy coffee? I’m starved, and you could warm up.” She shrugged.
In the café, two coffees and buns between us, a bloke at the next table leered. I shifted, blocking his view. “Toilet?” she asked. I pointed. When she returned, her hair was combed, drying—dark and soft. Early thirties, slim, fine-boned. The rain had aged her. “Lily loved crisps,” she said suddenly. “When she stopped eating them, I knew.” “How’d you survive it?” slipped out. “I don’t have a heart anymore. Just space,” she pressed a hand to her chest.
Back in the car, she smelled of rain and something floral. Emily had drowned in sickly perfume that gave me headaches. This woman was quiet, barely there. “The vicar said souls stay near for forty days,” she murmured. “I feel Lily—her breath. Sometimes she calls in dreams. D’you think she’ll come to the sea? She wanted it so much.” I pictured her on the train, a thin girl beside her. “But what then? You’ve no things.” “I’ll buy some. Doesn’t matter.” “The pain’ll follow. Need money? I’ve got some.” “No, thank you,” she met my eyes properly for the first time.
The station loomed. “I’m John. You?” “Catherine. Mum called me Kat.” I parked. “Can’t stay long. Sure you’re going?” I said. “There’s a lounge—like a hotel. Rest there. Here.” I offered notes. “I’ve got—” She recoiled. “You’ll need funds there. Take it. Pay me back. Gives me reason to wait.” I pressed the cash into her palm. “Thanks,” Kat vanished inside.
The rain eased. I leaned back, eyes shut. Kat’s face flickered behind my lids—under the tree, soaked and broken; in the car, hiding her knees; in the café, that first faint smile. Felt like I’d known her years. A jolt—I’d dozed off. Then I saw her, standing by the bonnet. She climbed back in. “Changed your mind?” I asked. “You didn’t leave your number. How do I return this?” She smiled—properly—and something in my chest twinged. “You’re right. Can’t outrun grief. The sea won’t be right without Lily.” I started the engine. Kat slept, head against the window. I pulled over at a rest stop.
CCars rushed past, carrying people home to warmth and memories, while in mine, two lost souls slept side by side, their loneliness quiet for now.
