A lively rain pours over the upstairs neighbour’s balcony. Half drawn curtains obscure the light. A half-dressed man lays on a mattress on the floor. His head falls in the centre of the room. No furniture obscures his vision down the hall. Possessive droplets drip of a ginger-haired woman. He watches through the pane of glass as she washes the soap from her shoulders and back. Exchanging looks the pair pull on their suits separately. He ties her bow tie while she fixes his hair.

A black-haired cat awakes. Its afternoon nap finished. It jumps down from the top of the wardrobe with a light thud. Hearing the two in the other room, it rushes through. He picks it up immediately as it enters. Holding the cat away from her sky-blue suit and close to his own.

“Has she been fed?” he asked

“Not yet.”

The man took the cat to its favourite cupboard—the one to the left of the cat bowl. Sitting on the man’s left arm, paws in the palm, butt in elbow crevasse. She begins to purr. He opens the cupboard and pulls a can out. ‘Hermes’ ‘for fast cats’ is a bold red can with a cartoon man with wings for ears. Lid pulled open and a fork inside. He gives the cat a sniff. Her perch became a prison. She must make her escape. She prepares to fight, but her warden has seen it fit to release her. He scoops out the last quarter and mushes it with the fork.

He leaves both in the sink as they both leave the flat. Locking their green fire safe door.

“It’s not worth the hassle, that thing.”

“I beg to differ,” he replies, swinging a key on his finger. They interlock their hands while waiting at the elevator door. A polite ding as the door opens. A small gaggle of children run out yelling.

“I’m a t-Rex.”

“I’m a lizard.”

“Jacobs eating the paint.”

“Am not.”

The children run around the couple. Leaving a boy with his hand stuck in a trap. His mother stands in her denim overalls, trying to wipe the paint from his mouth. In resistance, he pulls away, and his feet go from under him. Slipping in a puddle of pudding, the small child’s head donks of the floor like an overfilled water balloon.

Jacob cries as his mother picks him up. She pulls the paint-covered child close to her chest, scooping up the bag of art supplies. She looks back into the elevator, covered in red paint, as she exits. Then down at the pair of new dress shoes.

“Oh, JJ, look at that mess. Don’t worry, you two, I’ll go grab some wipes.”

“It’s okay, Mrs Johnson. We are in a bit of a hurry, so we’ll take the stairs,” replies the girl.

She takes his hand. Pulling him in the stairwell.

“Fourteen flights aren’t that bad. It’s just two sevens,” she says.

“Two seven,” he replies, taking the lead. Going down the stairs doesn’t take more than five minutes. At the bottom is a heavy fire door labelled ‘Sub-Basement 2 car park”. The couple walks over to a yellow Mini. Taking out the key again, he asks,

“How can this be a hassle?” She doesn’t reply. She gets in, brushing a single black hair off her leg as she sits comfortably. Standing six or so inches taller than his partner. The man bends and contorts around the steering wheel before almost falling into his seat.

“See no hassle,” he says, completely dead-pan. Knees sticking out and away from the foot-well on both sides. The girl laughs, she laughs so hard she grabs, and she laughs and laughs. Tears start pouring onto her raised cheeks; he chuckles a little and fiddles with the key as the laughing calms down. Her cheeks drop as she attempts to catch the endless stream of tears in a quickly disintegrating tissue. He pulls her head into his body. Soaking up her grief until there’s none left.

“I’ll never let go,” he whispers.

“I know, but someone should drive. We will be late.”

She fixes her minimalist make-up as he reverses. Eyes meeting in the middle, she tries to smile.

“Today is not the day for that,” she says.

“Don’t rule it out; he’d want you’ll to keep your spirits high.”

“You think?”

“Of course, when did he ever like to see people cry. He’d always be the first the try and help. He was good like that.”

“He hated funerals,” she said, adjusting her seat belt.

“I haven’t been to one in a good seven years. Perks of a small family, I guess. My mother’s funeral only had five people, including my dad and me. Her work friends were nice enough to come as well, but no one made it to the wake. Dad took me to American style diner, and I ate pancakes until I threw up,” he said, pulling on to the motorway.

“You don’t talk about your mother often. What was she like?”

“She was like a hurricane. She’d do everything at a thousand miles per hour. If you couldn’t keep up, you’d get blown away. My parents divorced a few years before she died. My dad would say, ‘It’s not worth waiting for the sky to be clear, either you love each other, or you don’t.’”

“Do you think he still thinks about her?” she asks, staring out her window, watching the fields in the pouring rain.

“When the skies are clear.”