It was one of those days, grey stretched out in the sky like empty paper, there was a mist in the morning and it created a mist in my head that just wouldn't lift.
It was raining, but it was rain you can't hear landing on the roof. Instead you can see it resting on plants and droplets hang in wait beneath railings, ready to drop, drop, drip.
I took the bus to meet you at the train station, your stomach was bulging, I think you were 8 months along. I had a coffee and you some juice, you folded napkins into flower shapes and I pulled out some chalk to colour them red.
When it was time, I found the envelope full of notes and slotted it into that book about evolution you lent me and passed it across the table. You stepped onto the train and a friendly man lifted your suitcase into the storage space whilst you waved and waved.
Raincoats rustle, eyes water, light in the dark.