I have this love-hate relationship with the rain. 

I love the melancholy yet peaceful sentiments I get from hearing the rain and watching it splatter here and there, on the sidewalks, on cars, against windows of houses waiting to be doused. 

I hate it when the rain brings a storm.  It can become so violent that it wracks my house’s alarm and disrupts the electricity supply.  I will have to sit sweating in the dark, without television, computer or air-conditioning, listening to the thunder pounding in my heart as my eyes get slashed with flits of lightning.

It wasn’t raining when I got the call.  In fact, it was a quiet night as I sat in front of my computer.  The only light in the room was from the screen of the monitor.  My mobile beeped and a stranger sent me some messages.  As if on cue, some dogs started barking a few houses away.  She told me she knows who I am and quoted a few things to prove her knowledge.  She proceeded to tell me who she is.  I read disbelievingly but my heart was starting to crack; I tried to call her bluff.  I told her I know who she is, someone staying near my house, someone who knows where I stay and what car I drive, someone playing a prank on me.  I told her I can hear the dogs barking.  But I know she was miles away, with him.

I forwarded the messages to him.  It was late so I did not expect a reply.  I did not sleep well that night although it was not raining and no sound of thunder disturbed my sleep.  Even before dawn, my feelings told me this was real, however improbable it might seem. 

The next morning as I was driving to work, I called him.  He said he did get the messages and was going to call me later.  I asked him if the messages were true.  He said yes he did sleep with her but only once so not all the things she said were truthful.  His admission was all I needed to believe what I should believe.  My intuition would tell me who was telling the truth and what was the truth.

It rained on and off the next few days, the next few weeks and the next few months.  It rained even harder when my mind had to turn away from him to focus on more important things happening in my life then.  My mother was seriously ill and passed away shortly after.  The rain helped wash away some remnants of him as I tried to save my mother’s.

“You left me standing in the rain”, echoed in my mind then, and sometimes now.

I hate being soaked in the rain but like to open my arms to embrace all the droplets.  I like to feel the beating of each drop of rain on my flesh despite the pain.  I like to smell the freshness of the air after rainfall.  I feel refreshed.  It’s strange, this love-hate relationship I keep with the rain. 

“Really,” I whispered as I wiped my face, “you left me standing in the rain.”

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