I Fell From The Dark

10

Rain thundered around her. It was night, and every surface was hard and shiny, concrete and stone which glistened in the streetlights. Above her was a deep, careless darkness, from which water fell like shame. She was cold and angry.

He'd promised something, and then reneged on that promise, and he was trying to laugh it off. It was some little betrayal, not worth the emotional investment, but under the little lie a bigger one lurked, swimming deep below the surface, a lie that she'd always suspected and finally proved.

His face was still hidden, obscured by an umbrella. She was supposed to share it, but instead she stood on the pavement metres away from him, pelted by rain. Water ran down her nose, dripped from her hair.

She screamed something at him, and he froze, caught out, his subterfuge stripped bare. He was unsure, and then furious, shouting back to hide his shame. He advanced on her, hurling vitriol, but she knew that she was right, so she stood her ground, and he came so close that she could smell his breath, and flecks of spittle landed on her cheek.

He was still a blur.

She could see herself in a shop window: and recognised herself. She was older than the woman she'd seen before in the chair: her face was lined, and she was carrying slightly more weight. Her hair was black, but she knew that she dyed it to hide the seams of grey.

This was who she was.

She turned and left the man. He raged alone in the pouring rain.