Small gestures are sometimes so sweet, even if the melodramatic doesn't always happen.

For the Rainy Day

The rain drops fall from the sky, pattering against the multi-coloured plastic umbrellas that blossom along the road. Pedestrians huddle underneath them, sloshing in the ankle-deep flood, in vain attempts to protect themselves from the flurry of arrows of rain which form a curtain, blurring the sights beyond.

A young man sits at the bus-stop, teeth chattering and jacket zipped up the neck with hands tucked in pockets. The usual sorry sight.

He watches the intricate patterns the downpour makes on the windscreens of cars that occasionally swash more turbid, roily water onto his jeans. The windscreen wipers work hard at their job, swishing from side to side like hands waving frantically in the air. There are constant beats to the wipers as they move; squeaks that sound with each swish. With every swipe the intertwining streams and overlapping blotches of fallen beads of rain are gone and replaced with new ones.

He stares at the cemented road beneath his feet. Ripples form across the slight river of water, their rings growing, crossing, before dissipating, shattering all reflections of the glimmer of headlights and the glare of traffic lights.

The wind howls, and at the sound of the trees rustling he looks up. The branches shake and sway, whooshing and whispering. Leaves, carried by the swirling gale, are sent flying, all in the same direction, and fall on the road; only to be swept up again by the cars as they zoomed past, splashing more water upon the street. For a moment, it resembles autumn.

He shivers in the wind, draws the collar of his jacket closer, and buries his face in it. He wishes for the usual – a warm bath and hot chocolate. He is caught in the middle of a storm after all.

He sighs when there are no streaks of light in the sky, only the grey, heavy nimbus. The rain gives no sign of lightening to a drizzle, and he wonders how long it would take to wait the storm out.

All hopes dashed, a sweet whisper comes from behind. He turns, and there is an offer to share an umbrella.

He stares up at the face. A girl, perhaps a little younger than him, maybe still schooling. She is not pretty, but rather, extremely plain. Ordinary, and a face not easily remembered.

But he was so cold he would gladly take any offer of shelter. He smiles, a polite affectation, and gives his word of thanks as he accepts.

No, there is no amorous story that results from this. But it does add some sunshine to a rainy day.

Rain is a pretty thing and I like it, haha.

If you haven't realised, the notes at the end of the story tend to be a little more unneccessary. I just want to put these random comments somewhere, haha.