In The Rain 3

Whenever he thought about that day, it was through rain.

It had been a cold, nasty, miserable, wet day. Umbrellas, slickers, boots, nothing kept the chilly fog out of his clothes. He decided to go home early, spend some time with the wife. Why not? They hadn't been spending much time together as it was. She was always nattering on about something like that.

So as he walked the flight up to their flat, he didn't expect to see her putting on her own coat and hat. "Hey, kitten," he said companionably, throwing off his own wet gear and piling it on the floor of the closet. Her face became pinched as she saw him doing it, but she raised her head and took a deep breath. He spoke before she could. "Home early. Get dressed for it and we can go see a show or something."

She swallowed and closed her eyes as he moved past her, into the living room. "No."

He stopped, not from her refusal, but because their wedding picture was gone. It had hung above the fake fireplace for ten years, since their July marriage ceremony. He scratched his head. "June?"

There were other things missing, he saw, looking around the cramped room. The leather chair in the corner. A lamp. The magazine rack and scroll cabinet. A small oval mirror. "Is this…redecorating?" he asked, confused.

She took in another deep breath. "No, Ron. I'm leaving you."

He sank to the floor, slowly, facing the window. He noticed through his shock, the spinning vortex at his center, that the rain had picked up and lightning flashed outside. He watched the window as she kindly explained the situation. How he'd long ago seen her desire to have him with her as "interruptions" of more important things, like watching TV and playing chess. His lack of interest in her unless she was giving him something. Her desire for children. Her increasing unhappiness, which led to him suggesting she get therapy, but never understanding that he needed it, too. His arms folded over his chest and he curled up, trying to get warm, as the rain made patterns on the window.

Undoubtedly, she said other things. He got vague impressions, through the slipping and sliding water drops, that she mentioned their lack of a sex life. Her needs. What she was going to do. All he could remember, though, was the rain and his feelings. Loss. Anger. Fear. Confusion. They swirled inside him and blurred his vision, left him gasping for breath as his eyes burned.

She turned to go. He roused himself enough to move, to call to her. "Wait. Please, please don't go without …" Inspiration struck. "A last gift. Please."

She paused. "It won't change anything."

"For you, maybe, all right. But for me it might. Please, dear love."

Her face, cold as the rain, turned to him. "What is it?"

He hurt. He had made her look like that. He crumbled inside. "I just…I know I haven't been good at doing anything for you. I thought maybe you'd like a proper send-off."

They'd called it that, once. He remembered, back when they were first living together, how many times he'd laughed and pulled her back into bed, pushing her legs apart and teasing her. He'd say, in his own mother's voice, or as close as he could get, "You know you can't go outside without a proper send-off." She would giggle and submit, murmuring, "Oh, yes, and a good breakfast, too." He'd growl and pretend to "eat" her.

Her brows drew down, and for one moment he was truly scared of her, frightened by his loving wife and school friend, the woman who'd done everything for him. She looked at him as if he was not only nothing, but evil.

Then her face cleared. "Can't say I don't deserve it." She did not remove her coat or her other clothes, but moved onto the couch.

He tried a smile, then shook his head and wobbled onto his feet, clutching at the window sill behind him for support. His hands were cold and wet once he steadied, and he moved toward her with purpose. If she was leaving him, at least he'd give her something good to think about as she did.

She took no initiative. She usually did. Unusually passive, she moved to let him remove her underwear (white, plain panties) and position her legs wide on the sofa.

He bent to take the first taste in … God, how long had it been? He had neglected her, no doubt. He looked at her and cocked his head. When had she gotten that white hair from? Last time he'd done this, she didn't have any, and now there were two, cute as could be.

And she was leaving…

He quickly flicked his tongue over her, trying to recall what she liked. Not too much sucking, plenty of back and forth motion, the occasional circular sweep, and a finger right about … there, he believed.

She remained quiet. Normally she'd gasp, cry out, beg for more, but now her own private rain storm was still. She was wet, so wet she could drown him if he wasn't careful, but she made no sound. Thunder and the sizzling sound of rain hitting the building greeted his ears as he tried to please her one last time.

Apparently, he succeeded. She finally jerked up from the couch, with a delighted, surprised cry that eased a small corner of his mind. Even if she was leaving him, he wasn't a total waste in bed.

She relaxed as he bowed, then moved back to the window. He looked out as she rearranged her clothes, stood, and walked to the door. She unlocked it, then coughed. "I'll be staying a few streets over. I left the number in the kitchen."

He nodded. Coming down in sheets, it was. "I'll call, if you'd like."

She walked through the door. Closing it, she said softly, "Maybe."

It wasn't what he'd thought it might be, but it still hurt. The door still closed. She left. The cold from the glass spread into his nose as he watched the storm sweep her away.