Under the Rain of Loneliness
Dmitry’s wife, Eleanor, had started acting strangely. One day, she blew up over nothing, hurling every accusation at him—he hadn’t washed a plate, left his socks lying around, or forgotten things she’d nagged him about a hundred times. She was sick of cleaning up after him! And worst of all—he hadn’t earned enough for a new car. Dmitry started suspecting it wasn’t about him. The sudden gym sessions, new outfits, the effort she put into her appearance—none of it was for him. And then Eleanor left him for someone else.
A year passed. One morning, Dmitry was woken by the doorbell. He threw on his dressing gown, shuffled down the hall, and froze when he opened the door—he couldn’t believe his eyes.
A thick grey cloud crept over the clear sky, like an invisible hand smudging it with dull paint. Fat raindrops drummed against the windscreen as Dmitry drove through the streets of a quiet town on the banks of the Thames. The rain grew heavier, the wind howled louder, but inside the car it was warm, the radio humming softly. Outside, a cold sadness lingered, seeping into his bones.
The streets were empty, only a few cars speeding past, growing fewer by the minute. How many loops had he driven already? The flat felt suffocating, so he’d ended up here, behind the wheel. Dmitry always thought best while driving, untangling his life like a puzzle missing its key pieces. He turned onto a narrow lane, drifting further from the city, from the home that still echoed with memories.
A week ago, Eleanor had turned up again. Her return had torn open old wounds. She’d expected him to melt at her tears, forgive the betrayal, forget the insults. When she left, she’d hurled every cruel word at him—loser, worthless man. How do you forget that?
A year ago, she’d picked a fight out of nowhere. Screamed that she was sick of his mess, his forgetfulness, his inability to give her the life she wanted. *Four years without a holiday abroad! Another summer without the seaside!* she’d spat. *I’m leaving for someone who can give me all that.* Dmitry had suspected her sudden gym obsession and new wardrobe weren’t for him. At home, she wore old pyjamas, no makeup—outside, she glowed. He didn’t stop her. The pain wrecked him, but he survived. Drank with mates, then pulled himself together. With time, the ache faded.
At work, women perked up when they heard he was single. They didn’t need fancy gifts or exotic getaways—just a decent man. And Dmitry was a catch—fit, a flat, a car, no ex-wife draining his wallet. But no one stirred his heart. He wasn’t against love—just felt no spark. Friends drifted too—their wives wary of a free-spirited Dmitry leading their husbands astray. He visited them, but always returned to an empty flat where no one waited.
No kids with Eleanor. Dmitry hadn’t stressed—these things take time. Eleanor had even gotten checked—doctors said it was fine, just patience. But in the divorce, she’d hissed, *You’re useless! Even picked a wife who can’t give you a child!* That cut deep. Still, if she’d stayed, he’d have forgiven her. But she left.
Then, a year later, the doorbell rang. Dmitry opened it—and stood stunned. Eleanor stood there, tears in her eyes, begging forgiveness. *I made a mistake, I love you*, she repeated, clinging to him. He said he forgave, but could never forget. How could he take back someone who’d chosen another, only to crawl back when dumped? *Would you take me back if I left?* he asked. She stayed silent. As she left, he told her to take her things and vanish from his life. *I’ve nowhere to go*, she whispered. *What about your mum’s in the countryside?* he shot back.
That night, like tonight, he drove until exhaustion. He’d decided—if she was home, he’d try again. Old habits, old love. But the flat was empty. He wasn’t even upset. Deep down, he knew—she’d only returned out of desperation. The second she found better, she’d leave again. How could he ever trust her?
The rain worsened, wipers struggling against the downpour. Dmitry drove, talking to himself silently. One last lap, a stop for petrol, then home. At a red light, his gaze caught a woman under a tree. Spring leaves offered no shelter—she was drenched, staring blankly. The light turned green, but she didn’t move. Waiting for someone? Or lost, like he once was?
He drove on, then reversed. Rolling down the window, he beeped. She didn’t flinch. *Need a lift? Where to?* he called. She turned slowly. Rain or tears on her face? *Can’t stay here long*, he pressed. She shuffled over, slid in. A failed smile. *The seats’ll get soaked*, he thought, turning on the seat warmer.
She smoothed damp hair, tugging her dress over her knees—fabric clung. *Tissues in the glovebox*, he said, pulling away. She dabbed her face. Silence. *Where to?* he finally asked. *Nowhere*, she murmured. Her voice was soft, hollow. *Brilliant*, he thought. *The station. I remember now*, she added. *Husand trouble? Off to mum’s? Where’s your stuff?* He caught her startled look. *He left two years ago. Mum’s gone—heart attack, six months after. Friends… vanished when I asked for money. Now they call but flinch if I mention it. Don’t need it anymore.*
Dmitry hesitated. *A child?* he guessed. *Sold my flat, paid for treatment in Switzerland. Didn’t save her. Couldn’t do a thing.* Her eyes were dry, endless sorrow. *How old?* *Thirteen tomorrow. Bought tickets to the seaside—she dreamed of it. Wanted her to fight.* *Got them with you?* *Yes, morning train.* He didn’t speak. What could he say? He had a home, a job, health. She’d lost her child, her home, everything. How did she even breathe?
*No kids for me*, he began. *Wife got pregnant by someone else young, aborted it. Told me during the divorce to hurt me. Called me a failure, left for a richer man.* *Coffee?* he offered at a petrol station. *I’m starving, you could warm up.* She shrugged.
In the café, two coffees and pastries between them. A man nearby stared. Dmitry shifted to block his view. *Toilets?* she asked. He nodded toward the sign. When she returned, her hair was fluffed, dry—dark and soft. Early thirties, slender, delicate features. The rain had aged her. *My girl loved crisps*, she said suddenly. *When she stopped eating them, I knew.* *How’d you survive?* Dmitry blurted. *No heart left. Just emptiness*, she pressed a hand to her chest.
They drove on. She smelled of rain and flowers. Eleanor drowned in sickly perfume that gave him headaches. This woman was quiet, almost vanishing. *Priest said souls stay near forty days*, she murmured. *I feel her, her breath. Sometimes she calls in dreams. Think she’ll come to the sea?* Dmitry pictured her on the train, a thin girl beside her. *But what then? No clothes, nothing.* *I’ll buy some. Doesn’t matter.* *Pain’ll follow. Need cash? I can help.* *No, thanks*, she met his eyes—first real look.
The station approached. *I’m Dmitry. You?* *Katherine. Mum called me Kate.* He parked. *Can’t idle here. Sure you’re going?* he said. *There’s a lounge, like a hotel. Rest properly. Here.* He offered notes. *I’ve got some*, she stiffened. *Still need funds there. Take it, pay me back. Gives me a reason to wait.* He pressed money into her hand. *Thank you*, Kate slipped into the station.
The rain stopped, clouds parting. Dmitry leaned back, eyes shut. Kate flickered in his mind—soaked under the tree, hiding her knees in the car, that hesitant smile in the café. Felt like he’d known her years. He jerked awake—she stood by the car, then slid in. *Changed your mind?* *You didn’t leave your number. How would I return the money?* Her smile warmed him, his heart twisting. *You’re right, can’t run. The sea’s not the same without her.* He started the engine. Kate slept, head against the window. He parked at the petrol station.
Cars raced past, ferrying people home with gifts and memories. Inside his car, two slept—a man and a woman. NowAnd as the night wrapped around them, quiet and still, for the first time in years, neither of them felt truly alone.
