What the Rain Washes Away

Elena stood at the edge of the cemetery, the black hat she'd bought specifically for this occasion already drooping in the relentless drizzle. She'd spent too much on it—ninety-five dollars at that boutique on Fourth Street—but the saleswoman had convinced her it was 'appropriately somber.' Now, as rain began to seep through the felt and dampen her hair, she wondered if anyone else was counting the cost of mourning.

The ceremony was ending. People were moving toward their cars, umbrellas blooming like dark flowers against the grey sky. Elena stayed put, watching the coffin that held Richard's remains. Their marriage had ended three years ago, but the paperwork hadn't made it real. This did.

She remembered the last time they'd spoken. He'd called at 2 AM, drunk, wanting to talk about the time they'd gone camping in Montana. The morning dew had soaked through their tent. He'd made coffee with creek water, bitter and gritty, and she'd washed her hair in the freezing stream, shampoo bubbling against river rocks as he watched, saying something about how beautiful she looked even when she was miserable. She hadn't remembered it as beautiful, but Richard had always rewritten history to suit his narrative.

Now the rain was falling harder, plastering stray strands of hair against her cheeks. She reached up to tuck them away and realized her hands were shaking. Not from cold, though the November air cut through her coat. From something else.

A man approached, one of Richard's colleagues from the firm. 'You're his ex-wife, aren't you?' She nodded. 'I'm sorry for your loss.' The words were automatic, rehearsed. He probably didn't know Richard had died until two days ago, didn't know they'd spent seven years together, didn't know that Richard had promised to call her back that Sunday but never did.

Elena pulled the hat lower, shielding her eyes. 'Thank you,' she said, because what else was there?

Later, alone in her apartment, she would stand in the shower for a long time, letting hot water run over her until the skin on her fingers wrinkled. She would wash the hat, even though the care instructions said dry clean only, watching the black dye bleed into the sink. For a moment, it would look like ink, like words being erased.

But for now, she simply turned away from the grave, from the mourners, from the version of herself that had once loved a man who couldn't keep a promise. The rain was falling harder now, and she let it, let herself be soaked through, let the water wash away whatever remained of the woman who'd believed in happy endings.