The Red Umbrella

Hana had kept the umbrella for fifteen years. It was a cheap thing, red nylon with one bent spoke, and it lived in the back of the hall cupboard behind the vacuum cleaner. Tom had forgotten it existed. That was the point.

She had planned the surprise for months but needed one thing she could not book: rain. Their anniversary came and went under a cloudless sky. So did the following weekend. Then, on a Thursday in late October, the sky turned the colour of slate and the first drops hit the kitchen window.

'Get your coat,' she said.

She walked him through the old part of town, past the bakery that was now a phone shop, to the bus shelter where she had once stood dripping and furious after missing the last bus. He had been a stranger then, a lanky man with a red umbrella who offered to walk her home and talked the whole way about birds.

She opened the umbrella over both of them. The bent spoke dripped down his collar exactly as it had all those years earlier.

'You still have this,' Tom said, and his voice cracked a little.

They did not take the bus. They walked home the long way in the downpour, stopping under every streetlight to kiss, and by the time they reached the front door they were soaked through and laughing. Their wet clothes made a trail from the hall to the bathroom, and the hot shower they shared lasted until the water ran cold.

The umbrella went back in the cupboard, waiting for the next rain.