<p>I couldn’t bear the quiet house a second longer, so I drove. I got into my car and took whichever turns led towards the darkening clouds. I sped through the suburbs and out into the countryside, the engine rushing loudly in response to my urgency, my need get close to the storm. Under the fringe of the weather my car was greeted by a few fat drops of rain. Puddles gathered and then gushed as the rhythm of the sky quickened. Hedgerow flashed by, its blurred green dividing the greys of the road and sky. I rolled open the windows, freezing air came flowing in about me, the drumming on the roof intensifying as flings of wheel-spray splashed about the car.
I was led to a village where the rain was heaviest; I didn’t recognise the place. I pulled the car over by a little church, its thick stone walls darker where they were exposed to the rain, as if a bleak paint job had been abandoned halfway to completion. I stopped the engine. The windscreen wipers lurched once then stopped; the rain obscured the view almost instantly. It assembled and darted downwards, snaking over the glass, and fell directly onto my arm and shoulder through the open window. I opened the door.</p>
For an hour I sat reading and re-reading the email. Four years of close knit friendship and intimacy vanishing, as quickly as it had arrived. I knew we’d been having problems. I knew that recently we felt like something jarred, went against us.
Platonic, we called it, and we celebrated it. Friendship and love finely balanced; our great achievement. Had the balance been tipped? The email said that it had. We believed in investment, in work. We knew it wasn’t easy to carry this off. Had our friendship really overtaken our love, really made everything awkward? When we had made love lately, it was exactly that: awkward. Like Plato himself was standing at the end of the bed, disappointed, tutting. We both seemed suddenly nervous, or just not relaxed. How this had happened, I had no idea.</p>
We’d often joked about the fact that neither of us had met the one previously. And drank to our luck at meeting someone companionable to grow old with; someone sexy, funny, sensitive, who understood what life was about, knew how to respond to the other, not instinctually, but informed, intelligently. Perhaps it was unconventional, but neither of us had wanted more than space, freedom and time. There were so many advantages; neither of us had lost our friends, neither of us became controlling or paranoid. Neither of us felt envy, insecurity, stress. We believed it was genius, practically avant-garde. Of course there were doubters, but we ignored them, called them blind, narrow-minded. But now I could hear their whispers growing louder. I read the email again.</p>
I loved this garden, especially first thing, especially at this time of year, the frosted grass crunching under my slippered foot, the laurel’s green withstanding the temptation to pale, the bare-knuckled sleeping roses, silent. My ritualistic morning cigarette and tea seemed larger, a more intoxicating awakening. The tea’s steam was doubled in the cold, my warm breath doubled my smoky exhalations so I seemed descended from dragons, not a human at all.</p>
Enclosed, still, far from the main road; there was little not to love about this garden. The sky was azure, today in all directions but one. To the west a weather front approached, a wandering shadow of rain clouds. It would throw sleety, icy rain, driven by a cold, bitter wind. But our garden didn’t care, the darkening clouds were far off, could not be heard, and would probably pass us by. Here everything was quiet, calm, like watching a cellist playing behind thick glass.
My dressing gown swished as I moved from room to room. The computer was firing up in the study, the kettle chugging, boiling in the kitchen, the bath running and steaming, the bed unmade. I pulled the curtains to spotlight clothes scattered across the floor. You’d left in a hurry this morning; so used to being late, I thought.
Working from home afforded me amazing observations. I used to take advantage of the empty street and play music full volume, but these days I chose the dampened serene melody of the house instead. I watched as the sun cast away the condensation on the windows, I watched the slow advance of shade. The windows intrigued me, I’d seen all seasons through these windows.</p>

I knew what was expected of me from work, and had developed a system of rush and wait, rush and wait. Hammer out umpteen emails and then wait for their replies, sit and watch the weather pass. Sip tea, think of you. Such a creature of habit, you’d probably chide. But today the kettle clicked off unheeded. The bedroom remained silently untidy. The computer, after delivering your email, sat shy. I slipped into the tepid bath, the drip, drip of the tap, peer-pressuring my tear-ducts.</p>
I stood for some time next to my car. The rain was heavy, intense, freezing. The car seats were getting wet. Had I really wanted this, to stand in a storm, to let it pelt me, to let it soak me? I was not dressed for it, but I didn’t care. After all, what difference did it make?</p> I quickly unbuttoned my cardigan, wet cold fingers struggling, and threw it into my car. I wound up the windows and slammed the door, then stalked into the churchyard. The gate creaked, the puddles slapped, the yew trees glistened and swayed with reverence in the strong wind, grave stones leaned, moss-strewn, letters eroded by countless days like this one.</p>
I stood for a moment a few strides back from the church door, watching its cobwebbed porch being assailed by the rain. Why was I here? I’d wanted rain, storm, recklessness. And if I’d driven further, the skies would have brightened. Here the rain was heaviest, here the distance had been crossed, the horizon met. The church stood as an image I had never felt attached to. It had always been normal, mainstream, conformist, whereas I had built up a world of forerunning, of freedom. The rain did not ease, slanting quickly across the day. The church stood in front of me, I in front of it.</p>
I read your email again. It was short and frank, leaving no room for questions. How could I reply to this, should I even bother? Wouldn’t it be better to wait, to talk about it tonight? Assuming you’d be coming home tonight, if at all. It said you’d seen a decline, but a sudden end in response to a slow decline just didn’t make sense. Was there someone else? Had everything you’d said you’d believed, about the nonexistence of the one, your rejection and dismissal of fate, had it all melted away in the face of some new lover? Was it all worthless? Had you strung me along, taken what you’d wanted and now intended to move on? I stared at your words. I hated them. My head was full of questions, each as ground-shattering as the last.</p>
‘Why?’</p>
Wiping my eyes, I tore my gaze to the window. I could see the rain clouds that had seemed so distant this morning now occupying more of the pale morning sky; turbulent, wintery and dark, cold as my thoughts. I felt close to them, then; at one. Gasping, I wanted to be that storm, I wanted it to blow my anger away, wanted the wind stabbing straight through me. I had a sudden need to be on the move, to feel like you felt. I snatched up my car keys.</p>
Inside the church, my world of rain felt far away. Dripping wet, I could hear the tiny descent of water from my jeans, falling onto the flagstones, could feel all my clothes were soaked, heavy against my skin. I stepped forward past the aisles. A draught pulled at my senses, cooling me further, attempting to bring my blood in line with the cold nature of the heavens. All was still in the church, dim and immemorial. Images of a desert came into my mind, dry sand at the base of a coarse cross, heat, thirst, blood; but it all seemed so far removed from here. My pain, my shock, felt closer, more real. My anger kept the cold at bay, but I was beginning to calm. The unfamiliar surroundings of the village church helped me focus and force all of my questions into order, and I prepared to feed them answers standing there under the rafters.</p>
This old building, it suddenly occurred to me, held within it the same quiet as I so enjoyed in our home, but with more shadow, more space. I then felt an unpleasant sensation of being watched. Turning slowly around, a full circle, revealed no one. The altar, a golden cross, candlesticks, stained glass windows, darkly varnished, smooth benches, carpeted kneelers, bibles, musty hymnbooks, gravestones in the walls. I imagined skeletons under the floor, owls hidden in corners. The space, cold and dusty, had me. Or I had it.</p>
Why now? Was I more in love than you, had I let my love show too much? I hadn’t thought so. I had loved quietly, as you had. I had walked the wire, balancing between love and friendship. That was our quest, both of us, to avoid betrayal, heartbreak, to build trust. Maybe we had besmirched love so much its role had become languid and the balance tipped. Perhaps we’d been fooling ourselves, wrong all this time, our unconsciousness storing every sigh, desire and fear, remembering them against our will. Had it all suddenly come to the surface? Our enlightened post-modern relationship: was it always going to be one day crushed by our human nature? Should I have told you I love you? Did I want to hear you say it?</p>
I began to shiver and I hugged myself for warmth. Did I have the strength to start again?</p>
The tingling of stress lightened my lungs. I resented myself, standing in a church asking questions I thought would never be asked. Again, with an uncomfortable feeling, I thought of the similarities between this church and our house. This place did not feel empty, it felt like a home; a ghostly home. This made me stop and hold my breath. Nothing moved apart from the uncontrollable beat of my heart. I could not hear the wind; I could not hear the rain. The storm had passed.</p>
In dry clothes, I sipped hot tea and lit a cigarette. I haven’t smoked inside for years. Outside of the window the afternoon sun sparkled across the garden. It had been raining here, too. The house was warm, and the neighbourhood quiet, everybody still at work. You would still be at work. Sometimes, whilst sat, waiting for tasks to present themselves to me, I would write and tell you about my day. I loaded up your email and, without any right answers, began to respond.</p>
The roads were empty. The car’s heaters smelt of burning dust. Making mechanical transitions, I looked for signs towards home, wiping drizzle from the windscreen. Bringing you into my mind I tried to put myself in your shoes. How much of this had been ideology, how desperate were we to go against the grain? I’d always hoped that ultimately, love and friendship would really be one and the same. When we first met there’d been a spark, some chemistry, something natural blossoming. Trying to govern those emotions, to liberate ourselves from control itself, from hurt and disappointment, was a mistake. The conversations, discussions, plans we had made, beliefs we share; all we’ve worked for has clouded and relinquished the oneness of us. I pulled into our street, up to our quiet house; our home. I opened the door.</p>
