Weather

I was thinking of you today when I was staring out of the car window. The rain was dribbling at an angle down the glass, spinning away hypnotically and pulled by motion. Don’t you ever feel for the drops? They join, merge, split and flow on and down and away. They come together, argue, separate, and disappear.

When I focus on the slipping slide of tears, I can never make out the lights and the road. The red rear lights become a blur and the black fold of road melds.

With my eyes out of focus I know I’m travelling just out of reach of that shadow. It yawns in front of me, opaque and still, like a mouth. I can change gear and check my shoulder, like I did when you were last in the car. I see the shadow shuttle ahead with its open invitation. It’s moving in time with me, keeping pace and knowing my breath.

You always thought I was a little weird.

I wanted to tell you that I think that the shadow is made of anticipation. My anticipation. I can feel it. It keeps skidding out of my reach in the rain. I talked to you about this the last time. It is that sense I have. The sense that tells me that my life is one beat out of time, half a step behind, looking out of only one eye. The shadow is the feeling I get when I think the party is happening somewhere else, and I’m perturbed that I’ve been sent to the wrong address. I remember you cocking your eyebrow and you thought I didn’t notice.

So I stopped at the traffic lights, wondering at the shadow that slowed with me. People crossed through it, walking straight into it like it didn’t exist. The darkness washed over them like a cloud over the sun. They stood in my shadow of anticipation. Lucky people. They knew something I didn’t.

But it’s all a bit silly talking about the anticipation now, well, since you left. Now all I have is this cloud, the one you’d call regret.