Muriel sighed, turned her free hand - the one not gripping for life on the umbrella handle - upwards facing the rain and proclaimed:

“ Here, this is me “

In her hushed voice, the statement was as much confession as surrender. There was nothing more she could do. Keenly feeling that she was in the right, that she had always been and yet made to feel that, somehow, she was at fault, she could have done more. Why did people do that, turn things around, and reflect them as a means of deflection? She knew she should walk but to give in like this would make the path back so much harder.

She studied the eyes of the recipient of her words for a trace of emotion, reason, understanding, but found nothing, instead a kind of blank insouciance. She felt an uncharacteristic urge to fold down her brolly and thrust the spiked end, as hard as she could, into the gut of the person with those empty eyes, but instead turned on her heels and walked away in resignation.

Over three short days, he had grown to love Manchester - there was a vibrancy here which was unpretentious and easy. Nothing or no one seemed to need to try too hard to be anything. He had spent the afternoon walking through bright sunshine and sudden showers and his feet were aching and wet. Taking back streets where he could he was slowly making his way back to the hotel through puerile vandalism and incredible street art, from foetid pools of unidentifiable liquid, to niche boutique stores. He came across a woman standing in the middle of one of these alleyways. She was blocking his way looking at what, at first sight, appeared to be her phone, but as he got closer turned out to be a small black notebook. Her lips were moving, not in audible language but certainly she was speaking, perhaps to herself. In her mirrored sunglasses he caught a reflection of himself approaching. And yet, it wasn’t him, but himself, perhaps, twenty years younger. With a surprise matching the afternoon's patches of precipitation, he found himself submerged in a sudden downpour of melancholy.

She made sure to hold onto her every single day. A laying on of hands where she felt that the physical contact allowed something to flow between them. The ‘something’ changed with age and consideration. Once it was, perhaps, a feeling of longing, then a feeling of love, comfort, steadiness, help, desperation, loneliness. Not necessarily in any chronological order. They were never apart for any length of time. Perhaps not a single day in the last ten or so years. She would always yearn for the melding of bodies from hug to a hand laid upon or an arm in an arm to steady.

Although they never spoke of this contact they were both deeply aware of it and, in different ways, were somewhat dependent upon it. There would come a time when one would wonder whether they should have tried to understand it more, whether it would be easier now when it was no longer possible, whether a substitute could be found, but a substitute for what?

“ Sir, could I have a moment of your time? “ - this was how they always started. Just because of the Selfridge’s and Dior shopping bags, people assumed he had money and that he was willing to sign up for some charitable direct debit right there and then on the street, usually just to get rid of the annoyance of having to hear stories of others' woes from people whom he knew were on a commission and didn't give a damn for anything other than that.

But this guy was different. No clipboard, no bright-coloured waterproof jacket, no lanyard not even a pen.

“ What is it? “ He snapped a little irritatingly

“ Charity begins at home, I’m told, sir...”

“ Oh fuck o…” there was an instant shock - which felt like one of those Tom and Jerry cartoons where an anvil dropped on one of the character's heads - as the guy’s outstretched hand offered up the wallet he had moments before accidentally, and unseen or felt, ejected from his back pocket.

Rory steps into the fresh air to be hit by the icy sting of winter. In the steam-heated warmth of the double glazing, parquet flooring, and soft furnishings, he’d forgotten that today was the coldest this winter - or so the weather reporter from Ohio had told him. He knew where she was from. He had googled her just the other day - wondering whether they recruited people for their meteorological skills or because they looked good on camera. Turns out she had a double first from Oxford - so he guessed perhaps it was a bit of both. He fumbled for his cigarettes from inside his jacket under his coat and pulled one of the last two from the packet. His lighter had run out, so he was on a box of matches he’d found at home - great long cook’s matches, four or five inches long - longer than the smoke now hanging from his lower lip. Before he’d taken a drag, his breath was full of smoke - this damn weather - great from indoors - a nightmare when you had to go out and do anything useful.

It seemed a cruel fate that her husband had been taken the very first day he had finally retired. They said it was as if his heart had just given up with the relief of finally having managed to finish working full-time. All those years of scrimping and saving to reach this day, this part of their lives where they could finally do the things they loved, without the pressures or anxieties of work or other people on their minds. She resented him. She loved him. She missed him, even though most of the time they were together, she had wished they weren’t. Somehow, with him unable to talk to her, she started to like him more and get on much better. But he left her with nothing. The will had given it all away. It seemed so cruel of him at first, until the reality had sunk in, that it was genuinely a silly mistake he had made. Silly, not small. Stupid was more like it. She had always imagined that she would be the first to go - worried how he’d manage not even being able to boil an egg, let alone look after the house or himself. But here she was, ten years on, having to get the tram into town just to get the things he’d always pick up for her after work. And her eyes filled again with tears at the thought of the only thing left to come for her. Her true retirement.