Also, I've noticed how some people don't bother critiquing a bunched up piece, so I'm gonna go and confess that I don't know how indent the first line of the paragraphs. Tried a few things, they didn't work. So, if anyone can advise me on this, please do.
Cheers
==
Torrent.
The last person I wanted to be with on earth was with me that night, under a nearly dilapidated waiting shed that seemed to be apologizing to me that it even existed. I knew that the chances of me meeting him here by coincidence were slim to none. He must – should - have a reason why he was on this street, under this waiting shed, with his trench coat just as soaked as mine was from the pouring rain. Although I have to admit that I did not want to know what that reason was.
We acted like two people who did not know each other. He sat on the far left of the rusting bench while I sat down on the far right, avoiding his eyes and trying to convince myself that he did not exist. If only the rain wasn’t acting like it was near the end of the world, I would’ve charged away to find a cab – or even a tree – just so that I could avoid him. However, the rain was acting like the world was going to end and I had no other choice but to stay. I was unwilling to get hammered to death and besides, between sitting a few feet away from him and dying from raindrops the size of bullets, I’d choose the first.
I really had no way out. My phone had given its last throes of life seconds before I reached the shed. I was also down to my last five bucks. I hadn’t really thought that I would have a problem with money. And it was irritating that of all the times for me to be stuck somewhere, it had to be here and now.
Neither of us wanted to start a conversation. Or, that was what I thought till he said, “You knew it would rain.”
I knew what he meant, “I wanted to check it out.”
“You just went because he asked you to.”
“Like I said, Mac, I had the urge to go.”
“You were ranting about the rain all day.”
“Can’t I change opinions?”
“You never change opinions.” And he had bitterness in his tone.
Bitterness from what? I wondered, only for a moment because I began staring at my shoes that were wet outside-in. I could actually feel it squishing and could’ve squished it all night if he hadn’t opened his mouth to speak again. “You hate those kinds of things. I never even took you to them.”
I tried my best not to look at him. I continued on pressing my shoes. Was I hoping to push out my insecurity with it as well? I couldn’t really tell. Maybe, I was. God knows my stomach wasn’t feeling so good.
He was right though. I hated that particular kind of concert. I never grasped the gist of those things. I have always hated those loud noises, the singers growling, howling and shouting out lyrics that meant nothing but trash as if they were mantras. I hated the crowds who were composed mostly of insipid humans who shouted back louder, screaming bloody murder, whose bodies were peppered with piercing and nonsense tattoos. Don’t get me wrong though, I love rock music and I have nothing against body piercing and tattoos; it’s just that I have a limit to what I can tolerate.
Hard-metal was most definitely out of the question.
And somehow, it bothered me that he still knew and I expressed this out loud, “It doesn’t really matter to you, does it? Why should you even care?”
He made a tsk sound. He always made that sound whenever I proved a point that he didn’t like. I was both pissed and scared that he made that sound. It made me think; made my mind swirl on why.
Thunder rumbled and growled, an intermission between two clashing mortals. The cosmos must’ve banded together to make sure that we would meet. I couldn’t really escape it. And perhaps I didn’t really want to. I have long accepted the fact that no matter how much we avoided one another, sooner or later, we would have to talk about it…
About everything.
Still, a part of me didn’t want to talk about it. A part of me wanted to go into the rain and leave Mac all alone, the way he wanted, four months ago. A part of me disproved this. And I was left once more into an abyss of indecision.
Yes, like four months ago.
“Brian’s trash and you know it. He talks trash, acts trash – does nothing but and you still put up with him.” His tone was still bitter but it had a new element to it: anger.
I stared harder at my shoes.
“He doesn’t deserve you.”
“Will you just shut up about it?” I snapped, his last comment flaring me up. “Bloody hell, Mac. You’re out of everything and you can’t squeeze back into my good books.”
“So, you’re not saying that what I am saying is wrong?”
“Shut up.” I snapped harder, still not looking at him, knowing that if I did, I would only falter in his hard, iron gaze. “I attested to nothing and denied nothing. This isn’t media-talk.” Then, I was able to mumble. “Stop acting like you care because I know you don’t.”
Again, the thunder. I was thanking it now, acting like some chaperone between me and him. It filled in the silence where he should be responding or where I should be continuing on.
“But I do care.” he said.
I tried to ignore the burning hole it made through my psyche and failed. Memories started flooding me in an instant, as if his very words were the key to the destruction of the dam I have built to stop the overflow of emotion, of reminiscences, of qualms. “Don’t lie to me.”
“Don’t lie to yourself.”
Once more, my being temperamental got a hold of my better judgment and made reason disappear. I stood up, hands curled into fists, nails digging into my palms. I hadn’t realized that my body was shaking until later on. What was on my mind that moment was the memories of Mac, of me – of us. I tried to push them away but couldn’t. He had broken the dam.
He had broken my heart.
“Will you just stop it?” I shouted at him. “Stop studying me like you’re my shrink, stop calculating my responses – just stop it! You’re out of my life, Mac! You wanted out, tore yourself away – and there’s no bloody way I’m going to let you in! You got that? Stop talking shit about Brian and start looking more at yourself, because you’re not actually a stud, bastard.”
“And neither is he.”
“Shut the fuck up!!”
My response was accompanied by a crack of lightning and loud thunder; unwanted theatricals that were supposed to add strength.
I felt weak.
And possibly it was this weakness that I was finally able to look at him.
I was surprised to see that he was looking at me all the while and I was all the more taken aback to realize that his gaze was anything but firm. The iron had disappeared and turned into a mere, misty gray, like wisps of rain clouds barely making it away from the sun.
“Did he notice you leave?” he asked.
I started to falter, even if what he gave me wasn’t the firm, iron gaze. “He… didn’t. We got… separated.”
“It’s not even finished, is it?”
Was he here because he knew I couldn’t stand the concert and would leave early? Was he here for the sole purpose of betting on the slim chance that I might stop by this dilapidated waiting shed and have me for himself? Was he here amidst the bloody, murderous rain so that he could talk to me?
“I do care, Dana.” He said, in a low whisper and yet I heard it as if it was said through a megaphone.
“Bullshit.” And then, without second thoughts, I ran into the rain.
A tiny voice inside my head was shouting at me, telling me that I was such a wimp. I couldn’t push it out. The same way I couldn’t fight back the tears or the memories. Or the fact that I already knew just what a weak pushover I really was.

