'Have you ever seen the rain?'

Running as the rain lashes with tiny horizontal hammer blows, feet sodden as pavement puddles unite to form a flowing stream.

Panting breathlessly, I push open the sunshine yellow door of the diner. The steamy warmth and fug of cigarette smoke and frying are a welcome embrace for my bedraggled form.

Sweating from the sprint, I pause a moment on the threshold, dripping, catching my breath.

I resist the urge to shake myself off like a wet dog & catch Pete's eye. He shakes his head with a half smile, rubs his hands on the greasy red apron & gestures to the coffee machine.

I nod gratefully and take a seat in my usual booth at the window, sliding wetly onto the worn burgundy vinyl, Santana playing on the jukebox. I look for Muso Mike, he plays it over & over....his newspaper is there, folded over at the crossword, a cigarette burns in the ashtray.

Pete brings my coffee as Mike emerges from the bathroom to the apt opening bars of Creedence singing " Have you ever seen the rain?"

I smile in response to his wink & catch sight of myself in the mirror, immediately wishing I hadn't: smudged mascara, lank hair plastered to scalp, not so much date ready, but definitely dump ready.

There's no time to restore some dignity, to shove my head under the dryer fix my face...he's here. The bell tinkles his arrival.

Typically immaculate, suit pressed to perfection, like a Brooks Brothers catalogue model, and bone dry, thanks to the huge umbrella he's furling briskly as he heads towards me. There's no sparkle eyed gaze of adoration these days...& who could blame him for the fleeting but unmistakeable look of disdain as he approaches, taking in my sewer rat chic.

We kiss awkwardly, the kiss of death to forever and happily ever afters...and then, there are words.

Words I don't really hear. Words that merge and flow like the puddles outside, a stream of platitudes. Words that hang, sentences unfinished, questions unanswered. Attempts at kindness, at breaking it gently. All I can hear is that line looping, a premonition to the event unfolding.

" Someone told me long ago, there's a calm before the storm. I know it's been coming for some time".

Then it drops. The truth behind it's not you, it's me. It's not another woman, it's Jamie, his best friend, his skiing buddy. Jamie who returned the copy of Neruda I'd given him for Christmas, dog-eared at favourite poems of longing and passion.

It was beginning to make sense now. I'd thought it was cute and sensitive that they read each other poetry as they sat over whisky and cards in their cosy chalet; a soft counterpart to their carefully curated Alpha masculinity.

In the moment it takes for the domino run of revelations to fall into place, he's upright, standing at the edge of the table, ready to leave.

The jukebox is silent.

I guess everyone heard our hushed, one-sided conversation.

The door tinkles with his departure.

I head to the counter, to Pete's kind, lowered eyes. He silently pushes a thick slice of vanilla cheesecake towards me and whispers 'It's on me'.

I settle back into the booth & savour every mouthful of simple pleasure as Mike nonchalantly punches in the numbers to one of my favourites. The sounds of Sly singing 'Its a family affair' soothe my soul.

There's nowhere I'd rather be than here, where words are not needed to convey friendship, care, community and the healing power of cake.