It was raining. I liked the rain, though. I liked the way it ran down the windows in droplets, a couple at first, then joining together and falling down in silent waves. I pressed my hand against the glass, rubbing my thumb over the chilly surface. Though mid-morning, the sky had still to reflect some semblance of light, and the wind whistling through the panes did little to mask the bleakness from whence I arrived. The smell of coffee and eggs and crisped bacon had drawn me in from the slush and cold and chill of the outdoors. ​

In fact, the diner’s flickering neon sign had seemed a mirage at first, and after fidgeting with my utterly useless umbrella, I had finally spied my lifeline. Bringing my mug to my lips, I turned my head to get a better look at my fellow survivors. 

There was Mr. Sims, an old clerk from the department store who lived two doors down from me. He waved hello, going back to his newspaper. I smiled in return. 

Daria, the waitress, heaved a sigh at her counter, eyes focused on the door. I didn’t blame her. It had been a while since Tommy had been MIA, longer since he had last written. 

I took another sip and let the coffee burn my tongue. Here we were, abandoned on an island in the middle of a storm. Surrounded by grease stains and muddied floors and soap scum and the crackling radio, bringing us news of our boys from the front. Really, there wasn’t anywhere I would rather be on a Monday morning. 

I wondered if those travelers out in the rain felt the same. I watched them. Watched them struggle against the wind with their packages and bags and briefcases. Average, every-day life, and here they were, trudging on through. Just trying to get by. I hardly knew these travelers any more than they knew the woman staring out at them from the confines of a messy, cramped diner. 

I turned my gaze back to the remains of my overcooked bacon and powdered eggs. On days like today, it was hard to stand the taste, any memory of quality but a whisper, but the coffee did much to overwhelm the senses. That was, after all, why I was there before my shift began. Strong, bitter coffee, I believe, can do even the coldest body good. 

The lights flickered. A car drove by, sloshing the sidewalk with a wave of muddy water. I sipped from my mug. Daria wiped up a spill off the counter. 

The tiny bell above the door jingled, and a somewhat wet figure stepped through the door. “What nasty, nasty weather,” he muttered, fiddling with his umbrella, shedding off his coat. “A coffee for me,” he called out, seating himself down on one of the barstools. 

Daria nodded, winking as she turned around. 

The young man — an officer, if his suit was any indication — heaved a large sigh and buried himself in the closest menu. “Pancakes,” he said, eyes darting over the words, “Pancakes and bacon, if you have ‘em.”

 

“Comin’ right up, sir!” 

“Now you’re in luck, Mister,” said Mr. Sims, “Daria here makes the best flapjacks in all of Illinois!” 

Daria appeared with a carafe and freshly cleaned mug. “Only for you, Jack, only for you.” 

“Aw, ain’t she the best? You really ought to find yourself a man, Daria, or someone will snatch you right up.” 

“Mr. Sims, what am I going to do with you?” 

“Eh,” said the old man, scratching his stubble. “I’ve got a couple of ideas.” 

“Me too,” the stranger murmured, as Daria tutted and blushed and dramatically swatted his grin away. 

I took another swig of my coffee, the grinds collecting at the bottom of the mug. I checked my watch. Nearly time for the beginning of my shift… The rain wasn’t going to let up soon, that was certain, but at least the base was relatively dry. I could still work on the A-20 from inside the hanger. 
​
“So what brings you here, Stranger?” Mr. Sims spoke up, folding his paper. 

The man propped his head up with his elbows. “Oh, I dunno. Pretty waitresses, shelter from the storm, and, well, now this is just a possibility, but food, maybe?” 

Mr. Sims tossed back a laugh. “Aren’t we all?” He raised his coffee. “L’chaim.” 

“Hear, hear.” 

“Order up!” the cook bellowed. 

The stranger perked up in his seat, nearly devouring the hot breakfast Daria set before him. “Damn, Tommy,” he said to his plate, “You sure were right about this place.” 

Daria stopped, nearly dropping the coffee carafe. “I’m sorry?” 

The man paused, his expression shifting, and he reached into his coat pocket. “Thomas Ainsley. We were friends during training. Never met a guy like him in my life, saved a cat one night from the cold outside ’n called it Burt,” he bit his lip. “Once he went MIA, the boys sent me some of his old stuff. Never thought much of it, till I found this.” 

It was an envelope. ‘Daria’ was all it said. 

Tentatively, her hand trembling, she took the letter from his hands. “He would talk about you all the time,” the stranger continued. “About a gal with black hair and blue eyes that shined when she spoke, ‘bout how he’d always loved her but never got around to actually sayin’ so and such.” His voice softened. “You needed to have this.” 

Daria stuttered, tried to talk, but quickly realized she couldn’t, eyes brimming with tears. 

“Tommy’ll come back. He’d never give up easy. Look, I gotta catch a train in an hour.” He took her hand in his. “I’ll find him, Daria, I know I will, no matter how impossible it seems. I’ll be stationed near where they last saw his squadron. I promise you; I’ll bring him home.” 

Mr. Sims harrumphed at the idealist display, while Daria clutched the letter in her hands, nails crushing it as tears rolled down her cheeks. 

“Well,” the man said, reaching for his wallet, “This should cover it. Couldn’t stay for long, but had to stop by.” 

“I…” said Daria, “I don’t know what to say.” 

He offered her a half-smile. “Don’t need say nothin’, doll. Imagining your pretty face smiling is enough for me. Nice meeting you folks.” 

It was only for a fraction of a second, but our eyes met and froze and they acknowledged each other’s existence in the world. He slowly nodded in parting as he put on his hat and stepped back out into the sheets of rain. The bells jingled once more, and the door slammed shut in the wind. I checked my watch. I was late to the base.
 
***

It’s almost kind of peculiar to look at him now. The enemy wore him with jagged scars and crooked bones. Time wore him down like a path though the woods; etched lines on the sides of his eyes and his forehead and hands. 

I had forgotten our first brief encounter. It’s hard to believe that I must have seen him all those years ago, before he shipped off to war and came back so completely different. The unspeakable sadness that shone in his eyes whenever it rained. How he could stare at a wall or a mirror and see nothing but the past like a photograph, hung where it could never yellow and never be reached to take down. 

I couldn’t fix him.
​
But I can hold his hand.

*Disclaimer: artwork not mine