Puddle Light

The rain was a cold, insistent whisper against Sarah's collar, clinging to the strands of her hair. It ran in dirty rivulets down the brick walls of the diner they’d just left, blurring the harsh yellow glow of the 'OPEN' sign. Tom walked a step ahead, his shoulders hunched, the cheap umbrella doing little to keep the wind from whipping droplets onto his back. He didn’t offer to share it. Not really. Just held it over his own head, a silent, flimsy barrier between him and the night, between him and her.

Orange, violent green, and the sickly purple from the strip club across the street bled into the asphalt, swirling in the puddles. Each step Sarah took sent up a small, cold splash. Her sneakers were soaked through, a chill creeping up her ankles. She wished she’d just stayed home. Wished she hadn’t bothered. Wished she hadn’t even asked about the invoice for the garage, a simple question that had somehow, inevitably, unfurled into this damp, miserable silence.

His silence, heavy and full of unspoken accusations, was worse than the shouting. At least shouting meant engagement. This felt like a door slamming shut, not with a bang, but with a slow, grinding click. She watched his reflection in a particularly deep puddle, a fleeting, shimmering image of his stooped form, the umbrella a dark halo above him. He looked like a stranger, outlined in the garish glow of the city's vice.

"Cold, isn't it?" she said, just to hear a voice, any voice, that wasn't the rain. Her own voice sounded thin, reedy, lost in the city's rumble. Tom grunted, a noncommittal sound that could have meant anything. Or nothing. It usually meant nothing. He kept his gaze fixed straight ahead, as if the apartment building, still blocks away, was the only thing worth seeing in this whole, wet, miserable world.

"We could get a cab," she offered, knowing he wouldn’t. Money was tight. Always tight. Another layer to the grit under their fingernails. He just shook his head, a slight, almost imperceptible movement. The fluorescent tube in the pawn shop window flickered, casting their walking figures in stark, momentary flashes, like old newsreel footage. Their story, unspooling in grainy black and white.

She thought about the fight, hours ago, over dinner. Not even a fight, really. Just her asking, gently, if he remembered to pay the electric bill. And him, snapping, about how she always worried, always nagged, always found something to pick at. Like it was a hobby. Her chest felt tight, a dull ache behind her ribs. It wasn't nagging. It was just… trying to keep things from falling apart, from slipping through the cracks like so much rainwater down a drain.

A bus roared past, spraying a cold sheet of water that soaked the bottom of her jeans. She flinched, pulling her coat tighter. Tom didn't notice. Or pretended not to. The neon sign for 'Lucky Star Karaoke' pulsed red and blue, throwing a garish light onto a particularly large puddle. Their reflections there, momentarily, side-by-side. For just a second, she saw the young couple they used to be, dancing in some dingy bar, laughing so hard their sides hurt. That felt like a lifetime ago, a different universe.

She remembered the smell of his old leather jacket, the way he used to pull her close when she shivered. Now, he was a foot away, an abyss of cold air and unspoken words between them. She watched a pair of teenagers run past, giggling, splashing each other with gleeful abandon. They looked so alive. So careless. A sharp, ugly jealousy pricked at her.

"Are we ever going to talk about it?" she finally asked, her voice a little louder, a little sharper. It cut through the rain, she thought. It had to. Tom stopped then, finally. He turned, the umbrella still angled over his own head, casting half his face in shadow. His eyes, in the fleeting light of a passing car, looked tired. Bone weary.

"Talk about what, Sarah?" he said, his voice flat. "The electric bill? Or how you think I'm failing?" He spat the words, not loud, but with a quiet venom that stung more than any shout. The reflection of a 'Pizza Palace' sign, a slice of red pepperoni, gleamed in the puddle between their feet. It looked like a drop of blood.

"No," she whispered, shaking her head. "Everything. This. Us." She gestured vaguely between them, at the wet street, at the whole miserable, glowing city. He just stared at her, his face a mask she couldn't quite read. The rain kept falling, pattering on the umbrella, on the asphalt, washing over the neon reflections, blurring the edges of everything, making it all seem less real, more like a cheap, watery painting. She looked down at her sodden sneakers, then at the bright, distorted chaos of the puddle at her feet. It was a beautiful, ugly mess.

He sighed, a long, drawn-out sound that seemed to carry the weight of every argument, every disappointment they'd ever had. "I'm just tired, Sarah," he said, and his voice was softer now, defeated. He shifted the umbrella, just a fraction, so it covered a sliver of her. The gesture was small, almost accidental. But it was there. A tiny, fragile acknowledgment in the middle of the deluge. She didn't look up, just kept staring at the swirling, colorful oil slick on the street, watching the world get washed away, one drop at a time.