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Description
He got caught in the rain. It wasn’t something he had set out to do, of course. The clouds had been distant in the morning, the search for an umbrella seemed a waste of time when he needed to get to work, and logic favored his rarely seen optimism.

In the short walk from the bus stop to his house, the well-tailored fabric of his suit was soon soaked. Perhaps the damage could’ve been lessened if he had held his briefcase over his head or quickened his pace, but he wasn’t one to change his habits and routines over a silly whim of Mother Nature such as rain. He couldn’t conquer nature, so he chose to be indifferent to what it threw at him.

The door was unlocked. He stepped inside, set his briefcase down, and removed his suit jacket, hanging it on the coat rack. It was quiet inside; even the din of the rain was shut out. The house was usually like this when he arrived after work. Silent, but filled with a presence that made everything weighty. She was there. He could breathe her in like suffocating, humid air.

He found her at the kitchen sink, looking out the window she had recently decorated with bright blue curtains that clashed with the colour of the walls. She never asked his opinion on decorations and he never offered it, except maybe to wince after the carpet was torn out one afternoon to prepare for the hardwood floors that appeared the next. Even then, he was careful to bite his tongue instead of speaking and she was content to ignore the small reaction he gave.

She must have heard his wet shoes squeak on the tile, but she didn’t turn around. He studied her as he approached, the way she stood with her shoulders slouching down gracefully, carelessly. The black silk robe she wore had slid down to reveal a patch of skin at her shoulder, pale and smooth. He couldn’t seem to tear his eyes from it, even as she spoke, such a fine symbol of disorder.

“Lovely weather, isn’t it?”

The rainwater dripping from his clothes was forming a small puddle at his feet. He didn’t answer. Turning with a sweep of dark hair, she readjusted the robe carefully, covering up the bare skin. She had eyes like the curtains, like the rain, muddied sky blue. Something that didn’t belong. Regarding him briefly, with disinterest, she glided past him towards the dining room table where the cup of hot tea she had abandoned when the shower started was waiting.

She picked up the cup, blew away the steam that still lingered, but didn’t drink any. “I think I want to redo the tile in the guest bathroom.”

He nodded, even though she couldn’t see, understanding something in that moment: She was the kind of person who set out to get caught in the rain, who walked without an umbrella, staring pleadingly at clear skies. Did she ever get rain when she wanted it?

Description
He got caught in the rain. It wasn’t something he had set out to do, of course. The clouds had been distant in the morning, the search for an umbrella seemed a waste of time when he needed to get to work, and logic favored his rarely seen optimism.

In the short walk from the bus stop to his house, the well-tailored fabric of his suit was soon soaked. Perhaps the damage could’ve been lessened if he had held his briefcase over his head or quickened his pace, but he wasn’t one to change his habits and routines over a silly whim of Mother Nature such as rain. He couldn’t conquer nature, so he chose to be indifferent to what it threw at him.

The door was unlocked. He stepped inside, set his briefcase down, and removed his suit jacket, hanging it on the coat rack. It was quiet inside; even the din of the rain was shut out. The house was usually like this when he arrived after work. Silent, but filled with a presence that made everything weighty. She was there. He could breathe her in like suffocating, humid air.

He found her at the kitchen sink, looking out the window she had recently decorated with bright blue curtains that clashed with the colour of the walls. She never asked his opinion on decorations and he never offered it, except maybe to wince after the carpet was torn out one afternoon to prepare for the hardwood floors that appeared the next. Even then, he was careful to bite his tongue instead of speaking and she was content to ignore the small reaction he gave.

She must have heard his wet shoes squeak on the tile, but she didn’t turn around. He studied her as he approached, the way she stood with her shoulders slouching down gracefully, carelessly. The black silk robe she wore had slid down to reveal a patch of skin at her shoulder, pale and smooth. He couldn’t seem to tear his eyes from it, even as she spoke, such a fine symbol of disorder.

“Lovely weather, isn’t it?”

The rainwater dripping from his clothes was forming a small puddle at his feet. He didn’t answer. Turning with a sweep of dark hair, she readjusted the robe carefully, covering up the bare skin. She had eyes like the curtains, like the rain, muddied sky blue. Something that didn’t belong. Regarding him briefly, with disinterest, she glided past him towards the dining room table where the cup of hot tea she had abandoned when the shower started was waiting.

She picked up the cup, blew away the steam that still lingered, but didn’t drink any. “I think I want to redo the tile in the guest bathroom.”

He nodded, even though she couldn’t see, understanding something in that moment: She was the kind of person who set out to get caught in the rain, who walked without an umbrella, staring pleadingly at clear skies. Did she ever get rain when she wanted it?