Heartbreak and Tears

Dumped in the Rain

I hear the rain. The engine of the car ticking over. The metronome sweep of the windscreen wipers. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Hypnotic. Nearly.

The inside glass of the windows has begun to steam up - we are stopped on the opposite side of the road to her flat.

"Just take me home," she had said.

"It's over," she had said.

"It's run its course," she had said.

"Just a bit of fun," she had said.

"I-I t-thought I might have meant something to you," I had stuttered out.

I recall rainy Sunday afternoons as a little boy. Playing by myself. Alone but not lonely. Funny what pops into your mind on occasions such as these.

I turn my head to her. Her Slavic blue eyes are cold. Her face expressionless. Unreadable. As ever.

"You know that I love--"

"Don't. Just don't." She places her index finger across my lips.

I want to keep her just that little longer. Need to savour her presence, her essence. Draw it out.

"Look, it's been good. You're a nice fella. I liked you," she says. "But's it's time to move on. Sorry."

She places her hand on the catch and opens the passenger door. A little gust of chill damp air swirls momentarily around the car.

"Bye then," I say.

She says nothing and swings her body, her slim and lithe body, a body I once thought I owned, out of my car. Out of my life. Out of my future.

She closes the door and walks in front of the car. I watch her and she knows I am watching her. But she doesn't turn round.

She goes to the front door of her flat and paused under the porch she fishes her key out of her handbag.

I watch the sheets of rain illuminated by the orange-yellow glow of the sodium streetlamp continue to pour down on the road and stream away with the camber. I suddenly feel like I'm in a B-movie black and white film and that I'm Humphrey Bogart or Robert Mitchum. But maybe all of life is B-movie black and white film.

She slots the key into her lock, pushes the door open and disappears into the gloom of her hall.

She is gone now, and she never looked back. Not even a sneaky glance.

I depress the clutch, shove the car into first gear, flick on the offside indicator and pull away...

Brief Encounter

"Can you get one of your drivers, Pete, I think it is, to return my propelling-pencil. He's walked off with it."

It was the first time she had properly spoken to me in four years, and I had been walking along the Esplanade close to the entrance of the Pier and on my way home after an early shift.

Her light auburn hair - now out of a bottle - was stylishly brushed across her face to render her a coy look. She had a few more wrinkles but her entrancing deep blue eyes, neat button nose and tight mouth with thin lips, oddly sensuous, still combined to make her a handsome woman at fifty. Her frame was slight, and she was wearing a faded jean jacket. Her left arm hung loose, a roll up smouldering between her pale fingers. I knew she now owned and ran a drawing office-come-stationers up the road.

"I'm a lesbian," she states flatly. "I have two girlfriends."

I say nothing, walk over and threw my arms around her.

She doesn't resist, rather, she wraps her right arm round me and holds me tight.

"I spent twelve years of my life trying to make you happy," I start to cry. "Followed by four years of emptiness."

I laugh at the absurdity. I sob again at the tragedy, and watch a fallen tear darken a small area on the fabric of her jacket.

I should have guessed really: the lowered octave of her voice, the strong chin.

I let my arms fall away and then I kiss her on the cheek.

"Bye," she says.

"Bye."

She raises the nearly burned down roll-up to her lips, draws strongly causing it to glow momentarily brighter, and then tosses it to the asphalt before grinding it with her heel.

She smiles thinly, turns and makes her way back and up towards Union Street.

It's a nice day with the sun out in a clear blue sky. But it is kind of cold...