There’s a girl I love and I’m not even sure what she looks like—distinctly, at least. I’ve seen her through a glass darkly, but I long to see her face to face.
She comes to me in darkness and in rain and all I know of her is but glimpses and glances, fleeting shadows in the corners of my eyes.
She’s evanescent and ethereal.
I’ve seen her hair—dark, like trees of night that move upon the sky. Her eyes silent like midnight rain falling in the woods.
I’ve heard her voice, soft as the whisper of rain, borne on the breeze.
She’s the watery wraith who walks with me—sometimes, all the way to the harbour, blurred by rain.
It began one rainy September night when I couldn’t sleep.
I tossed and turned, lying awake in a vast forest of sounds. Rain running in the alleyway outside my window crackled like crumpled cellophane.
The rumours of distant thunder didn’t comfort me or make it easy to sleep. A blue, jagged arm of lightning lit the window.
The storm scattered raindrops like static on a radio band and my fine-tuned senses scanned the night.
I watched the luminous minutes and hours slip by.
I lay awake and pictured in my mind’s eye, the trees around my house, iridescent with rain, gleaming like luminous patches on my radar screen.
I was tired and over-wrought. Christine had left me and I couldn’t get the thought of her out of my brain. I struggled and fought but there was nothing to do, but get out of bed and go for a walk—Rain always calmed me.
I dressed, put on my overcoat and boots, got out my umbrella and headed outside.
I started walking briskly and with determination—forcing myself to move my large muscles in the hopes of relaxing the tic in my eye and the butterflies in my stomach.
I missed Christine and it was my first night without her.
The muffled noises of passing cars out in the rain calmed me. Occasionally, a flare of headlights would trace a pattern of tree branches across a wall.
I walked on, to where the houses were few and the streets deserted. I kept going.
I made it to the harbour and found an all-night diner where I stopped for coffee and toast, sitting in a widow booth, staring at the splashing streets.
“Kind of a lonely night, isn’t it?” Doris, the waitress, asked as she served me.
“It is,” I said, “but I like rainy nights—they have character.”
“Okay, Shakespeare,” she smiled, but I could tell she liked me.
I had no interest in pursuing a relationship. I felt bruised inside, as if I had been kicked down a flight of stairs.
Just the thought of starting over again with someone else, made me wince.
But there’s something cosy and warm about all-night diners in the rain. The smell of coffee and toast was comforting.
I remembered being marooned once on a crowded trolley bus in a thunderstorm—the power went off and the lightning flashed about us. I was with strangers, but the camaraderie of a shared moment bonded us.
I felt that way with Doris—but stayed aloof. I sat there sipping coffee and watching, while rain trails marred the dark window glass.
I daydreamed for about an hour, cocooned in my cozy corner, safe from the storm outside.
Then, I asked for the bill and left a tip larger than the cost of the meal. I might be back and I might never be.
Regardless, Doris would end up being another rainy day person in my book of memories and for that, I felt affection towards her.
I buttoned my overcoat, shook open my umbrella and headed for home.
I’ve always liked sheltering under an umbrella. I’ve always liked walking in rain.
Stormy weather—just the sound of the words fills me with nostalgia.
The mist rose from the lake and brooded in the streetlights. The air smelled like the sea and in the distance a foghorn was softly sounding two bass notes.
I passed a glass storefront and saw a reflection—the shadowy image of two people huddled beneath an umbrella crossing a cobble-stoned street.
My heart stopped when I realized I was one of the shadowy figures.
I had a shadowy accomplice.
