Under the Rain of Loneliness
James’s wife, Eleanor, had begun acting strangely. One day, she erupted over nothing, accusing him of every sin under the sun—leaving dishes unwashed, socks in the wrong place, forgetting reminders she was tired of repeating. She claimed she was sick of cleaning up after him! And worst of all—he couldn’t afford a new car. James suspected it wasn’t about him at all. The sudden gym visits, new wardrobe, the way she preened—none of it was for him. Soon enough, Eleanor left for another man.
A year passed. One morning, James woke to the doorbell. He pulled on his dressing gown and shuffled down the hall, opening the door to freeze in disbelief.
A heavy grey cloud crept over the clear sky, like an unseen hand painting it dull. Fat raindrops drummed against the windscreen as James drove through the cobbled streets of an old riverside town. The rain thickened, the wind howled louder, but inside the car, it was warm, the radio humming softly. Outside, a cold melancholy seeped in, chilling him to the bone.
The streets were empty, only the occasional car speeding past, their numbers dwindling. How many laps had he done around town? Home was unbearable—his feet had led him to the car. James liked thinking while driving, piecing his life together like a puzzle missing key parts. He turned onto a narrow lane, drifting further from the centre, from the house that echoed with ghosts.
Eleanor had returned a week ago. Her reappearance stirred old wounds, ripped open scars. She thought he would melt at her tears, forgive her betrayal, forget the insults. When she left, she’d poured venom on him—called him a failure, a useless man. Could anyone forget that?
A year ago, Eleanor had exploded over nothing. She screamed about his mess, his forgetfulness, his inability to give her the life she wanted. *”Four years without a holiday abroad! Two years without even the seaside!”* she spat. *”I’m leaving for someone who can give me that!”* James had suspected her sudden gym trips and new dresses weren’t for him. At home, she wore old pyjamas, no makeup—outside, she glittered. He didn’t stop her. The pain tore at him, but he endured. Drank with mates, pulled himself together. Eventually, it faded.
At work, women perked up when they heard he was single. They didn’t need lavish gifts or exotic trips—just a decent man. And James was a catch: in his prime, a flat, a car, no alimony. But none stirred his heart. He wasn’t against love, just—no spark. Even friends drifted; their wives feared a free James might tempt their husbands into trouble. He visited, but always returned to an empty flat, where no one waited.
They’d never had children. James hadn’t worried—not everyone starts right away. Eleanor had tests—doctors said she was fine, just needed time. But during the divorce, she spat, *”You’re worthless! Couldn’t even pick a wife who could give you a child!”* That cut deeper than anything. Yet if she’d stayed, he might’ve forgiven her. But she left.
Then came that doorbell a year later. James opened it to find Eleanor, tear-streaked, begging forgiveness. *”I was wrong, I realised—I love you,”* she pleaded, pressing close. He said he’d forgiven but couldn’t forget. How could he take back someone who’d wandered off only to return when dumped? *”Would you have taken me back if I’d left?”* he asked. Silence. As she left, he told her to collect her things and vanish. *”I’ve nowhere to go,”* she whispered. *”What about your mum’s in the countryside?”* he shot back.
That day, like today, he’d driven until dark, exhausted. He decided: if she was home, he’d try again. He knew her, after all. But the flat was empty. James wasn’t upset. He thought, and understood—it wouldn’t have worked. She returned out of desperation, and if someone better came along, she’d leave again. How could he ever trust her?
The rain worsened, wipers struggling against the deluge. James drove, arguing silently with himself. One last lap, a stop for petrol, then home. At a red light, his gaze caught a figure beneath a tree. Spring leaves offered no shelter—she was drenched, staring into nothing. The light turned green, but she didn’t move. Waiting? Or, like him once, lost?
He drove on, then reversed, honking. The woman didn’t flinch. *”Need a lift?”* he called, lowering the window. She turned slowly. Rain or tears on her face? *”I can’t wait here long,”* he urged. Shuffling forward, she climbed in, lips trembling, smile failing. *”Seats’ll be soaked,”* James muttered, turning on the heated seats.
She smoothed damp hair, tugging her dress over her knees. The fabric clung. *”Tissues in the glovebox,”* he said, pulling away. She dried her face. Silence stretched. *”Where to?”* he finally asked. *”Nowhere,”* she whispered. Her voice was soft, hollow. *”Brilliant,”* he thought. *”The station, actually,”* she added. *”Running from your husband? Off to your mum’s? Where’s your luggage?”* Her puzzled look answered. *”He left two years ago. Mum’s gone—heart, six months after. Friends vanished when I needed money. Now they call, but they’re scared I’ll ask again. Money doesn’t matter now.”*
James faltered, regret biting. *”Your daughter… better?”* he asked, guessing. *”No. Sold my flat, paid for Swiss treatment. Didn’t save her. I couldn’t do anything.”* Her eyes were dry, but endless sorrow lived there. *”How old?”* *”Thirteen tomorrow. Bought tickets to the sea—she dreamed of it. Wanted her to fight.”* *”Got them on you?”* *”Yes, morning train.”* James said nothing. What could he say? He had everything—home, job, health. She’d lost her child, her home, everyone. How did she even breathe?
*”No kids myself,”* he admitted. *”Wife got pregnant young—someone else’s. Abortion. Told me during the divorce, to hurt me. Called me a failure, left for a rich bloke.”* *”Fancy coffee?”* he offered, spotting a petrol station. *”I’m starving, you could warm up.”* She shrugged.
In the garish café, they sat with coffees and buns. A man at the next table stared. James shifted, blocking his view. *”Where’s the loo?”* she asked. He pointed. When she returned, her hair was dry, fluffy, dark. Early thirties, slender, delicate features. Rain had aged her. *”Emily loved crisps,”* she said suddenly. *”When she stopped eating them, I knew.”* *”How’d you survive that?”* James blurted. *”No heart left. Just emptiness,”* she pressed a hand to her chest.
They drove on. She smelled of rain and flowers. Eleanor had drowned in sickly perfume that choked him. This woman was quiet, dissolving into the air. *”The vicar said souls linger forty days,”* she murmured. *”I feel Emily, her breath. Sometimes she calls in dreams. Think she’ll come to the sea? She wanted it so badly.”* James pictured her on the train, a thin girl beside her. *”What’ll you do there? No clothes.”* *”Buy some. Doesn’t matter.”* *”But you’ll have to come back. The pain follows. Need money? I’ve got some.”* *”No, thanks,”* she met his eyes for the first time.
The station loomed ahead. *”I’m James. You?”* *”Charlotte. Mum called me Lottie.”* He parked. *”Can’t stay here long. Sure you’re going?”* he asked. *”There’s a rest area—like a hotel. Sleep properly. Here.”* He pushed notes into her hand. *”I have some,”* she recoiled. *”You’ll need more out there. Take it. Gives me a reason to wait.”* *”Thank you,”* Lottie slipped into the station.
The rain stopped, clouds parted. James leaned back, eyes shut. Lottie flickered behind his lids—under the tree, soaked and hollow; in the car, hiding her knees; in the café, a fragile smile. Felt like he’d known her years. A jolt—he’d dozed off. Blinking, he saw her by the bonnet. She watched him, then slid in. *”Changed your mind?”* he asked. *”You didn’t leave your number. How would I repay you?”* She smiled, warmth lighting her face. His heart jumped. *”You’re right. Can’tShe rested her head against the seat, and as the engine hummed, he realized for the first time in years, the weight in his chest didn’t feel so heavy.
