Not even the rain has such small hands

A storm brings Nico back to me, slender fingers rapping my kitchen window, bare feet dimpling mud by the door.

        I’ve been dreaming of her ever since that day her bike crashed on a rain-slick street and she didn’t make it home. Now, each night, I wake to the moon’s fist punching blackness and hear her call my name.

        Morning comes. Fields swirling the house trickle watery greens and blues, steam turning every window into a Seurat painting. Hugging a coffee, I hover under the eaves staring at my lawn. A fresh patch of mud splits the grass. Up close, I spot rough gouges, as if she clawed her way out of the ground. I close my eyes. Raindrops stroke my neck like her fingertips after a swim.

        Avoiding the churned-up earth, I heft damp logs from the stack by the shed. Over the years, I’ve swept away the debris of my life with Nico, but now and again, a piece of her takes me unawares — a red typewriter, a blue t-shirt that still bears the faintest smell of her — things I can’t bear to part with. I break for a little while then. Lighting the wood burner, I feel a story hovering in the back of my mind. Something about a flood that washes away people’s pain. Or their memories. Or brings back ghosts? I don’t recall which.

        Night returns. I see Nico’s wet prints before I see her. When she emerges into the kitchen’s gloom, her face is invisible. Moving closer, I feel rain fall on the street the moment she rode into the traffic’s undertow, see her smile as she turned away that last time, hear the lapping of cars at the kerb.

        We stand face to face. Her hair drips on the tiles.

        She’s drenched, not like she used to be after a swim, more like clothes left for days on the line. I find her a comfy place by the fire, towelling her hair the way I used to, yanking piles of towels from the airing cupboard before rushing back, breath held. Sagging a little each time I find her.

        The storm ebbs and silence swells around the house. I dab Nico’s neck and arms. Those hands. Not even the rain has such small hands.

        I just want her to stay, though I know she’s not mine anymore. Even my memories of us feel like films of someone else’s life these days.

        Every towel in the house is tangled in a wet heap round the fire. Nico sits naked as flames lick up behind her, glinting gold in her hair.

        “I’ll get you some pyjamas,” I say, stroking her cheek.

        She kisses my palms one by one.

        I come back to find her gone, run to the back door, still flung wide.

        The garden’s empty; the sky clear. Sun dyes the ragged grass red.

        There’s nothing I can do but watch light douse the fields, grief honeyed.