The Blame Lies with the Rain
By late afternoon, the sky had darkened with clouds, and by evening, a light drizzle had begun. Spring streets looked dreary, especially in such sodden weather.
For over an hour, Matthew had been driving aimlessly around the city, killing time before his departure. As evening fell, traffic thickened, forcing him to idle at red lights and crawl through jams. Time dragged, but he had no desire to return home, nor was it yet time to head to the station.
He pulled over by the kerb and switched off the windscreen wipers. Tiny raindrops dotted the glass like transparent beads, blurring the world beyond.
All week, he’d been reeling from Olivia’s leaving. Even now, the ache lingered. Had he stayed home, he’d have drunk himself to sleep again, just as he had every night since. Without wine, sleep wouldn’t come.
They’d lived together nearly a year, after two months of dating. At first, everything was perfect—better than perfect. He’d even begun making plans: a summer trip to the coast, where he’d propose by the sea, despite their recent quarrels. Olivia had grown sharp-tongued, picking fights over nothing, always angry, always demanding.
Just before she left, they’d argued about his gift for her on Mother’s Day. A bouquet of Dutch tulips and the handbag she’d long wanted had struck her as thoughtless.
“You’re the one who wanted that bag,” Matthew had protested. “And it wasn’t exactly cheap.”
“I knew you’d get it. I thought you’d surprise me with something more, something personal. A gift should be unexpected, something special.”
“Well, sorry—should’ve hinted harder, then,” he muttered.
“Couldn’t you figure it out yourself?”
And off she went again. He didn’t know how to please a woman, she said. He didn’t earn enough. James had given Rebecca a fur coat, and Sarah’s boyfriend had bought her a diamond ring.
“James earns his money through shady deals, walking the line.”
“So what? At least she gets new coats, holidays abroad. You’re so ‘principled’—that’s why we’re broke.”
“We’re not broke. I wanted to give you a ring, just later. Who needs a fur coat in spring? Besides, he got it on sale—hardly a grand gesture.”
“Are you pretending, or are you really this dense?” Olivia’s voice rang like glass in the wind.
There was a reason for these fights—Matthew suspected as much but refused to believe it. They’d quarrelled before, but nights always ended in reconciliation. That last night, though, she’d turned away, slapped his hand when he tried to hold her.
By morning, she wouldn’t speak to him. He rang her throughout the day, but she ignored his calls before switching off her phone entirely. He barely lasted till evening. On his way home, he bought flowers, only to find a note waiting in the flat.
Olivia wrote that she was tired of it all, that she was leaving for 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 whatever he could—especially the trinkets Olivia had left behind, discarded for her new, richer life. Then he grabbed a bin bag, stuffed in the remnants: her toothbrush, a pot of face cream, the dressing gown still hanging in the bathroom. He even hauled it to the skip behind the building.
The worst of it wasn’t that she’d left—it was that she’d left for another, branding him a failure. And that was exactly how he felt. Sleep eluded him; the pillows still smelled of her. Memories clawed at him. He rose, uncorked a bottle, and poured a glass. It didn’t help, but eventually, he managed a few hours.
The week passed like this. He turned up to work hollow-eyed. His mates pitied him. His performance suffered. His boss took pity, sending him to mend his broken heart with a training stint in London instead of the new hire.
“Change of scene will do you good,” the man clapped him on the shoulder.
After work, Matthew packed a duffel, tossed it in the boot, and drove aimlessly. Rain blurred the windscreen, turning the city beyond into smears of headlights.
He rolled down the window, spotting a café sign. At once, he pictured the cosy interior—dim lighting, murmured conversations, low music—the perfect distraction. Inside, the place wasn’t crowded, but every table was taken. He slid onto a barstool and asked for coffee.
“Bar’s for drinks. Take a table, and the waiter will help you,” the barman said.
“Right,” Matthew muttered, scanning the room for a seat.
Near the bar, a woman sat alone, stirring her cup absently. Dark hair, tied back. A delicate profile—neat nose, lowered lashes. Slim trousers and a fitted jumper outlined her slender frame.
*What colour are her eyes?* He wanted to know at once. Strangely sure she wouldn’t send him away, he approached.
“Mind if I join you?”
She looked up. Green eyes. *Olivia’s were brown*, he thought, unbidden.
“You’ve already sat down,” she remarked. The waiter brought menus.
“Black coffee, no sugar.” Matthew glanced at her cup. “Make that two.”
“I didn’t ask you to,” she said coolly.
“Cold coffee’s vile. He stood you up?”
“Who?”
“Who you were waiting for.”
“None of your business.”
“You look miserable.”
“A friend.”
“What?”
“I was waiting for a friend.”
The waiter replaced her half-finished drink. Matthew sipped his.
“Not bad. I’m Matthew. And you?”
“Is this a chat-up?” she asked flatly.
“Suppose so.”
“Eleanor.”
“Listen, Eleanor. Why sit here? I’ve a car. Fancy a drive? The city at night, rain, lights—it’s something. I’ll drop you wherever after. My girlfriend left me. Train’s not till late, and I’ve hours to kill.”
She studied him. *Weighing if I’m lying*, he realised.
“Not lying. You’ve nowhere to be either, or you wouldn’t be here. So? I’m no lunatic—decent chap, really.”
“If you’re so decent, why’d she leave?”
“Didn’t leave. Found someone richer, better.”
Eleanor weighed it. Then: “Fine. Let’s drive.”
The rain thickened. They dashed to the car.
“Seatbelt,” Matthew said as they settled in. “I’ll show you the city.”
“Very funny. I was born here.”
“A different city, then. Bet you’ve not seen this side.”
As they drove, he pointed out buildings, sharing odd anecdotes.
“How d’you know all this? Tour guide?”
“First, let’s drop the ‘you.’ We’re sharing intimate space here. Second—she was a tour guide.”
He could’ve lied, claimed he’d read up on local history. Once, he would have. But not to Eleanor. She wasn’t like the others. He didn’t try to charm her—just offered company for the night.
They’d circled the city twice; even good stories grow dull repeated. He turned on music, filling the silence. Soon, he hummed along. Eleanor joined in. By the chorus, they were shouting the lyrics together: *“And once more, the silver night, the only one I trust…”* When the song ended, they laughed.
“Time to take you home. Where to? My train’s in two hours.”
“Where are you going?”
“London. Had I known I’d meet you, I’d have refused the trip. I volunteered, stupidly. But I’ll be back in a fortnight.”
“What do you do?”
“Advertising. You?”
“Bank. That’s my place,” she said suddenly, subdued. She stared ahead. Then: “Actually—can I see you off? Wait till you board?”
“You already have. You’ve helped pass the time.”
“No, properly. Wave as the train leaves.”
“Romantic. No one’s done that.” He smiled. “But you’d have to get home alone late.”
“Plenty of cabs by the station.”
They drove to the terminal. He parked in the paid lot. The waiting room was near-empty. Olivia wouldn’t have come, he mused. But Eleanor—she was different. Easy to be with. No pretence, no forced jokes. Sweet, unspoilt. He liked her.
His train was called. On the platform, he half-joked, “Script says I kiss you now, say something profound.”
“Say it, then.” She met his gaze.
“And may I?” He brushed his lips to hers.
She didn’t pull away—leaned in.And as the years rolled by, they often laughed about how a rainy evening and a chance meeting in a quiet café had rewritten both their lives.
