I like rain—rain is all about forgiving and forgetting. Walk in it and it’ll wrap you in mist and paint you black. Lose yourself in it and it’ll draw a curtain around you and hide you from the world.
Under dark skies and plashing streets, you’re all alone—no worries about prying eyes, and even if you cry, no one will see your pain.
Yeah, I like rain.
Ever since Ella left, I’ve been doing a lot of umbrella popping and I like to think God is crying with me because it’s been raining every day and today makes a full week.
I’ve got a big condo on the top floor of the Flatiron building where I try to see the lake, but lately all I see are squalls. I imagine Ella out there on the Island ferry looking back at the fogbound city, maybe staring at the lights of my condo, wondering where we went wrong.
I know it’s a romantic notion, and she’s probably moved on, but I like to think it anyway and see us in a film noir and she the femme fatale.
I have a closet full of Ella’s clothes, her collection of Thirties Jazz and a few reproductions of Chagall—but not much else—and needless to say, no girl who calls.
And I’m in a restless funk tonight—because, hell, it’s Friday, and I’m in no mood for more bone-chilling walks and soaking pant cuffs—and frankly, I need something more—something more than the smell of damp wool drying on a radiator.
To add to my angst the temperature's dropping and snow flurries are glazing the streets.
So, I decide it’s a night for a drive in my Bentley—the Bentley Continental, fastback coupé my dad imported back in the day. It’s a right hand drive, but I’m used to it now—and even though Dad’s been dead ten years, I still feel proud to keep it in the way he would if he were still around. It’s tied me to him and the past—like I’m still tied to Ella and all her jazz.
It’s probably not the greatest night for a spin in this chilly weather and as I head west on Lakeshore the fog rolling off the lake is far too murky to be safe. So, I turn off at Jameson and head north to Bloor and discover by going where I’m going to go.
Seems I’m in a nostalgic mood because I’m back at the streets where my father grew up. Why? I have no idea, but I’ve learned to trust myself and go with my moods and so far it’s made me a successful writer, so I see no need to question it further.
I’m on Havelock Street and looking for the park where Dad told me they set off fireworks every Victoria Day. It seems important for me to find this out—it’s like cutting and opening a wound, but I tell myself I’ll feel better afterwards.
I’m rounding a bend when suddenly a figure emerges out of the mist, and I narrowly avoid a collision.
Turns out it’s a young blonde woman wandering aimlessly in the middle of the road—she looks dazed and she’s soaked to the skin.
I pull over and walk back to talk to her.
“Miss, are you okay—do you need help?”
She stares at me, or more precisely through me. Then, I notice blood staining the back of her head.
“Get in the car,” I say, “I’m driving you to the nearest hospital.”
I manage to guide her into the passenger’s seat.
I get in and start the motor, but as soon as I reach for the gearshift, a clammy hand clutches my wrist.
“I’m fine.”
I stare back into huge blue eyes used to giving commands.
“You need to see a doctor—you have a head injury.”
“No doctors, or I’m out of here.”
I shrug. “Have it your way—but you’re injured. How can I help?”
She leans back in the seat, eyes closed and obviously exhausted. “I just need to rest for a while.”
Her teeth are chattering and her lips are blue. I turn on the car’s heater. “You need to get somewhere warm and take off those wet clothes.”
“Yeah sure, Hon—take me home. I’m yours.”
Not a bad idea, I muse, but truth is, I’m really concerned about her. She reminds me of a Thirties film star—close up, everything about her seems fuzzy and out of focus.
She's lovely but I guess what I'm saying is there's not enough actuality, not enough reality about her. It's as if she unexpectedly bi-located and this version of her seems out of time.
This is probably a wrong turn for me and continuing down this road will bring nothing but heartbreak. I don't know but right now don't care because being with her is better than being alone and I'm tired of feeling empty.
They say Nature abhors a vacuum, but sometimes nothing is better than what life throws at you...
So, tonight we'll see what Fate has in store for me.
