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It was raining quite hard when I saw them walking, a pair of lovers who had been going for a stroll in the dark, and had been caught in the rain. They were quite young, I suppose, though I have never been a good judge of those things, and I floated around behind them. I suppose I hover behind all at some point, but these two seemed special to me. I paid attention to them, and saw their stories, hovering behind them like film-reels lost to time.
He was a boy from Detroit; his life had been far from easy. He had had to fight for every scrap in his life, and love was new to him. He had met her on a train bound to New York, and they had hit it off. They had spent a couple weeks in correspondence with each other before they had decided to date, and when they did, it had been a smashing success. Within six months they had moved in, and within eighteen he had proposed; rushed though it seemed, they were in love.
He had cut ties with his father, who did not approve the marriage. She was ‘not right for him’ he had said. And who knew, maybe his father would have eventually been proven correct.
She was born in Tennessee, the child of farmers whose lineage traced back to the dust bowl. She loved him dearly, but not with the all-consuming passion he did; she was a slow burn, and had more ties in the city than he did. She worked in a grocery store; her favorite food was roast chicken, and her best friend was her coworker, who was the first friend she made in the city.
Her parents were dead, her mother from a heart attack, her father from lung cancer. She had no ties back home, and was happy here.
I take no joy in my work this night.
I follow behind as they walk along the street, talking and laughing, with such joyous plans for the future. Their lives seemed secure, so perfect, so lovely.
They walk along the sidewalk, wet and dark, with an umbrella to protect from the rain. Twenty feet lay between them and the end of the block, twenty feet between them and the street. They paid little attention; youth rarely does.
They wandered along, talking of everything and nothing at all, giggling, him holding her close, kissing her forehead with such care that I wondered if there was a way I could stop what would happen. Of course, I couldn’t.
Ten feet to the street. He knelt to tie his shoe and she waited. Perhaps if he had left it alone, he wouldn’t have –
Five feet to the street. Both she and he are talking and laughing again. They didn’t even notice, as they stepped into the street.
The driver was a truck-driver from Shermer, Illinois. No wife, no kids. Nearing forty, it seemed he had little prospects of that happening, and he was happy enough about it. After the ‘incident’ as his coworkers euphemistically referred it, he would lose his ability to drive. He would take to drink. In all too soon a time, I would be drawn to him as well.
Perhaps if he had reacted a little faster, he would think, knowing he couldn’t have. I think the helplessness is almost worse, in a way.
Perhaps if it was not raining, he would have seen them before. Perhaps he could have reacted earlier. But, like me, the rain is inevitable. And even if the rain did not come, perhaps I would have come to them in a different manner.
I take no joy in my work, and as they stepped forward, the headlights shined on them just a moment too late for them to react.
Soon there was nothing to be done but watch, I, the eternal witness, in the rain.
And right there it rained a little harder.
write a story with the first line being “it was raining quite hard” and the last line being “ and right there it rained a little harder”