A Rainy Day

It was her birthday, that day we walked in the park. Tipping down rain soaked us to the skin, driven by a biting wind which turned our umbrella inside out. We left the yellow and blue striped brolly in a rubbish bin, flapping in the wind like some drunken dragonfly.

Fortunately, the 'summer season', if it could be called that, had started about a week ago, and the park's cafe was open, having been shuttered during the depths of winter. We ran the last few yards, splashing through inch-deep puddles, their surfaces bouncing chaotically with the falling rain. The cafe's wooden-framed door was mostly glass, showing stickers of the range of drinks and snacks served here: all the big names and half a dozen less-famous brands.

What we wanted, however, was coffee and this cafe made the best in town. This was not some wild fancy: it was based on solid research. Together, we had toured every coffee shop in town, from the multinational franchises, through small 'Mum and Dad' operations, to the greasy spoons at the train and bus stations. Some places had been pretty good but none of them compared to The Liaison Cafe. We laughed about that: just when you needed a little TLC, there was The Liaison Cafe. We'd missed coming here over the winter.

She went to the Ladies' to tidy up. Very appearance conscious, my girl, the slightest hair out of place, or smudge on her lipstick, would send her running for the nearest mirror. At times, this could be a very infuriating habit, particularly if we were running late and she was correcting a very minor fault in her make-up. I told her that she was beautiful, no matter what imperfections she thought she could see.

I dumped my soaking jacket at our favourite table and walked to the counter. Kate, the assistant manager, looked up from her celebrity lifestyle magazine and gave me a somewhat tired smile. It had obviously been a long shift for the old dear.

"What can I get you, sweet?" she asked, as if she needed to know. The order was always the same. Two large cappuccinos, one with a double-shot of espresso (hers, not mine), almond biscotti on the side, and two fingers of dark chocolate.

"And a slice of the Black Forest gateau, please," I added. It was, after all, her birthday. I hadn't brought candles, so made do with a silk rose I had stuffed hastily into my jacket pocket. It was slightly crumpled but, I reasoned, it's the thought that counts.

I sat at our favourite table and waited for her. And waited. And waited.

"She's not coming back, you know," said Kate from behind.

I turned to her, tears streaming down my face. She had passed away a year ago to the day, on what should have been her thirtieth birthday.

"She doesn't need to come back," I replied through barely restrained sobs. "She's always here." I pointed to my heart and cried.