A Dark and Stormy Night, by Jo Wallis

                                          

It was three years since we met; three years and a few days; our first wedding anniversary had passed in the summer. I was thinking about this as I waited for you; struggling to focus on positives, but hindered by the strong winds crashing rain against our house.

Eventually I sensed more than heard the front door open and close behind you, felt anger in your determined effort not to slam it. You would be cutting the air as you moved across the sitting room to the kitchenette and the fridge, checking the surfaces were clean, the floor mopped and everything we owned tidied away in its correct place.

You stand in the door way, a can in hand, swaying slightly. In a ludicrously loud whisper you ask if I’m awake. Even without the thunder, sleep would have been impossible, but I don’t say that.  I smell rain on you, and sweat. I am absolutely bloody soaked, you say, and freezing cold. Even in the gloom I see the bottom of your trousers darkened, your shoulders the same sodden black.

Oh dear, I say, shall I get you a towel?

Shall I get you a towel? It’s going to take more than a towel to warm me up, my darling, you say, in tones that reproach me for appearing warm and dry in bed. I am actually incredibly cold, unable now to distinguish the hammering in my head from the storm outside. Your voice is dangerously high-pitched as you ask why I hadn’t reminded you to take your raincoat.

You stand close now, slam your can down on the bedside cabinet. Beer spills out; it will forever remain the smell of violence, but at that moment all I think is, mustn’t forget to wipe that up when you’re through with me.

In the morning you are smoothly conciliatory as you down black coffee and fasten your tie. You were so cold and so wet and I had been having a laugh, you say, I’d done nothing to help. For all I cared your suit could’ve been ruined. I’d brought it on myself. But really, sorry, I shouldn’t have been so rough. See you later.

I am sore all over and avoid the bathroom mirror. Would it have made a difference if I’d pretended to be asleep? Probably not: I can’t seem to help aggravating you. If only I had thought to put your raincoat out, or an umbrella at least. But yesterday morning had dawned fine and the forecast had been fair. And then it occurs to me, clear and unavoidable as if delivered by last night’s lightning: I hadn’t made it rain; I don’t have the power. It was not my fault.