The Thursday Night Downpour

By 8:00 PM, the city was under siege. A massive, torrential urban downpour had moved in, hammering against the brick exterior of the building. Thunder rattled the windows, and the streetlights cast long, watery shadows across the living room floor.

Julian had come home at 7:00, completely soaked and exhausted. He had muttered something about the terrible weather, grabbed a towel, and disappeared into the bathroom to take a hot shower.

The sound of the rushing water from the bathroom was Harper’s only cover.

She stood in the foyer, wearing her heaviest winter coat, her scarf pulled up to her chin. Beside her sat her two largest, heaviest suitcases, crammed to the bursting point with her clothes, her sketchbooks, and the fragmented pieces of her broken heart.

She looked around the apartment one last time. The pothos vines she had watered for three years. The worn spot on the velvet sofa where Julian always sat. The kitchen counter where they had spent countless midnights eating cereal and laughing until they couldn't breathe.

It was over.

Harper pulled her apartment key off her keychain. Her hand trembled violently as she set the cold metal down on the entryway console table. Next to it, she placed a hastily scribbled sticky note.

* Found a new place. Moving out early so you don't have to worry about the 'transition.' Have a great Friday. - H.*

It was cowardly. It was bitter. It was the best she could do without entirely falling apart.

Harper grabbed the handles of her suitcases. She quietly unlocked the front door, slipped out into the hallway, and pulled the door shut behind her. The lock engaged with a final, heavy *click*.

When she stepped out of the lobby and onto the city street, the storm hit her like a physical blow. The rain was freezing, blowing sideways in sheets. Within seconds, her coat was soaked through. The wheels of her suitcases caught in the deep, rushing puddles on the sidewalk, fighting her every step of the way.

Harper walked. She dragged her heavy, miserable life down the block, her head bowed against the wind.

She didn't know where she was going. She couldn't afford a hotel in this neighborhood. Her meager freelance savings were laughable. She just needed to put distance between herself and the apartment. She needed to get away before the shower turned off, before he found the keys, before he tried to call her and offer his sickeningly sweet, pitying apologies.

The water washed the carefully applied mascara down her cheeks in dark, bruised streaks. Her hair plastered itself to her skull. She was freezing, utterly defeated, and entirely alone.

After five agonizing blocks of fighting the wind and the heavy luggage, the glowing red neon sign of a diner cut through the darkness ahead.

* Frankie’s 24-Hour.*

It was a dingy, greasy spoon on the edge of the neighborhood, the kind of place that smelled of stale coffee and frying oil. Harper didn't care. It was dry.

She hauled her suitcases up the concrete steps and shoved her way through the glass doors.