Linda Mueller - Rain

He stood in the rain, his too-big-for-him clothes weighed down with water and sadness. I stopped the car and bipped the horn. He took a few steps back, puzzled, as if he had never seen a car before.

This was going to be harder than I thought.

Stepping out of the car, I spoke in my calmest of voices.

“I’ve come to take you home. You’re getting wet out here.”

“Home,” he said. “It’s that way,” pointing in the opposite direction to home.

“Come on, jump in. I’ll take you there.”

He paced backwards and forwards then started to circle the car, as if he wasn’t sure of a way in.

“I can’t. It’s underwater. You’re underwater.”

“No, it’s not. I’m not.”

He wasn’t convinced, not even close.

“Do you trust me?”

He frowned. “Should I?”

“Of course, you know me. I’m Lisa.”

“I’m going home.”

I started to say yes but he was gone, into the darkness.