The umbrella

In the pouring, soaking, sodding rain I stood. Like an absolute lemon. Frozen in place for twenty...thirty minutes until eventually some old lady stopped and prodded me.

'Everything alright, love?' she asked with a tone that reminded me of my nan. Warm, concerned.

'Huh?' I mumbled, still dazed.

'You've been standing there quite a while, since before I popped into the shops.'

By 'the shops', she meant the little Tesco Express just behind us. Its bright, white hospital lights bounced off the rain-soaked streets, sparkling across each droplet like a depressing disco.

'Oh my, you're absolutely drenched, dear, here, take this.'

The tiny woman - more anorak than person - fished an umbrella from her gingham trolley and held it out. Water streamed between the wrinkles on her hand.

'You look like you need it more than me,' she smiled.

'Uh – thanks,' I replied, somewhat confused.

'It's ok, dear, you just feel better and get yourself dry.'

She pinched my cheek and waddled to the bus stop, just about catching the next bus. Through the drizzle I heard a faint 'Thanks, driver' as she flashed her pass and claimed her rightful place up front, some poor teenager scrambling out of her way.

After she left, I remained standing. Only now I had an umbrella in my hand, which somehow made everything worse. Like, what kind of nutter stands in the rain holding an unopened umbrella? But moving felt impossible. Using the umbrella felt impossible. Everything felt bloody impossible.

See, that's the thing with break ups. They're paralysing. One second it's all 'I love you', hugs and kisses. And the next? Well it's an argument in the rain outside a Tesco. Though, I guess it could be worse – could've been an Asda.

What the argument was about, who knows? The details are foggy – must have been important though, or I wouldn't be standing here like a statue, letting the rain soak through my clothes.

I remember snippets. Me, going through the usual cycle: defend, deflect, deny. Defend, deflect, deny. Until, eventually, came the only D that mattered – dumped. Oh, and 'dick,' that came too. Calling her a bitch probably didn't help. But she'd already branded me a 'self-centred arsehole' and a 'fucking prick', so maybe I was justified.

Probably not. But maybe.

The rain drummed steadily against the pavement as my mind drifted back to the present. I stumbled into the bus shelter, where the fusty stench of weed hung like stale breath. The space was cramped – just me, a miserable looking man in a suit, and a kid in all black with his hands down his trousers. Neither seemed the sort to offer empathy.

'Eh, mate, you got a lighter?' asked the crotch holding youth.

Silence. Words wouldn't form in my mouth. My mind was too busy rewinding, replaying every moment like a broken VHS. The way her lips trembled when she said it was over. How her mascara had started to run – was that rain or tears? Probably both. The exact moment her eyes changed from anger to something worse: disappointment. I wasn't ignoring him, I was just lost in the audiovisual torture of fresh heartbreak.

'Oi, mate, I said have you got a light?' The kid, though somewhat tall and spindly, still carried a sort of rough menace. He had the look of someone that'd happily turn out your pockets and check himself.

'Huh? What? Nah, sorry,' I muttered, voice cracking slightly.

The kid kissed his teeth and then asked the suit wearing man the same question. He too ignored him, though his headphones gave him a pass. That's the thing about headphones, they allow you to ignore everyone – regardless of whether you're listening to music or not. I should have put mine in, I thought.

We all sat there, stoic, three strong symbols of manhood. A young mother joined us beneath the plastic shelter, her boots splashing through puddles as she wrestled with a battered Mothercare buggy. Rain had turned her chestnut hair to ink, plastering it against her hollow cheeks as she fussed with the transparent rain cover, checking her sleeping baby was dry. Dark circles under her eyes suggested she hadn't slept in days.

The youth's eyes flickered toward her, then to her bag, hanging precariously off the buggy handle. He wouldn't, would he? My stomach tightened as I played it all through my head.

Sometimes I'd do that, you know? Get lost in these little hero fantasies. I'd see myself sprinting after him, my feet barely touching the wet pavement. In my head, I'd catch him just under those harsh Tesco lights, tackle him clean like James Bond or someone. The bag would go flying - but I'd catch that too, obviously. Everyone would clap. The mother would cry grateful tears. Maybe the local paper would even... but that's the thing about daydreams, isn't it? They're always perfect. They never include the part where you might slip on the wet pavement, or get stabbed, or just freeze up like I'd done earlier. They never...

The bus rounded the corner, sending waves of dirty water across the pavement. The mother struggled with the buggy, trying to shield her sleeping baby from the spray while keeping her shopping from spilling. The bag, that fake leather Louis Vuitton, emblazoned with that stupid LV logo, slipped from the handle. A tube of half-used lipstick, a crumpled pack of Polo mints, and her battered purse scattered across the wet pavement. As her belongings rolled toward the gutter, the youth tensed, his hand leaving his pocket – and suddenly my hero fantasy evaporated, replaced by the cold reality of what might actually happen next.

I stood up.

Time stopped for a moment, like it did earlier. Instead this time all the potential futures flashed before my eyes, as opposed to all my memories of the past. What should I do? What was I doing? Would I really have to–

'Here,' I said. 'Let me help.'

She looked at me, surprised, juggling the buggy's handle. 'Oh bloody hell, sorry I'm so—'

I scooped up the contents of the bag. 'There you go,' I muttered, handing her that brown monstrosity, now soaked and dripping.

'Thanks,' she said, clutching it with a grateful smile that reminded me of Stacey. As the bus pulled up, I helped her with the buggy, positioning myself between her and the youth who'd suddenly found something fascinating to look at across the street.

We all piled on, the mother settling near the front, still wrestling with the buggy on the packed bus. Through the steamed-up windows, I could see the rain hadn't let up. A few stops later, as she struggled to her feet, I made my way forward.

'Here,' I said, holding out the umbrella. 'Take it.'

She looked at me, surprised. 'Oh, no, I couldn't—'

'Please. Someone gave it to me earlier. Seems right to pass it on.'

As the bus pulled away, I watched her figure grow smaller through the back window, the borrowed umbrella bobbing above her head.