The expressway wraps the city in monotony, passing warehouses and exits that no longer bother to announce themselves. That night, the rain drenched everything. The windshield filled and emptied in steady, uneven sweeps. The wipers kept time.
The bridge rose gradually, and the sound of the road changed. Old streetlamps glistened through sheets of rain, each creating a brief island of light before the road fell back into darkness, tires beating in time over a patchwork of old and new concrete.
Rain demands careful driving. Eyes forward, hands steady on the wheel, I pressed on.
I saw her before we were close, a lone figure moving where there wasn’t much room to walk. She stayed near the edge, stepping where runoff gathered and spilled. Her coat lay flat against her back, a hood drawn tight against the downpour. She did not look up.
At first, she was only a distraction. Speed. Distance. The rain. I adjusted without thinking, keeping the wheel steady. The car stayed centered. Old byways collect moments like this. People walk where they shouldn’t. They have someplace to be.
The distance closed, the rain blurring details but not presence. As the car drew level, we passed beneath the same streetlamp, illuminating both the vehicle and the solitary figure. For an instant, she was held there, separated from the rest of the night, while the car continued.
I saw her through the passenger window. Her shoulders leaned forward, steps careful along the flooded concrete. In a blink, something registered—a posture I had known, a memory arriving without warning or certainty. It was there, and then it wasn’t.
The car moved beyond the light, and her image fell back into darkness.
Another lamp replaced the last. The bridge kept us moving. The rain continued its barrage. I did not slow. By the time the thought clearly formed, and I understood who she might be, the moment was already gone.
I kept driving, the road pulling me forward while something older surfaced—a memory, sudden and transportive.
My first winter after moving to a new state. A new job. People I was training who worked hard and watched closely. A few of them noticed something I was still pretending not to see. They were thoughtful about it. Quiet. They met my eye when the supervisor wasn’t looking. They appreciated my help, especially when supervision was heavy-handed and the rules shifted on a whim.
Some moments felt good. My training mattered, and the work moved faster with fewer mistakes. I could see the improvement in how the day unfolded. Later, the tone changed. Once, I was made to count cash by hand while the supervisor stood over me, waiting. The numbers slipped. My fingers didn’t move the way I wanted them to. I blamed nerves. I blamed the day. I did not yet have a name for what was happening.
Christmas arrived early. The office was dressed for a party I wasn’t invited to. I was sitting alone in the manager’s office when the owner came in and stopped. He asked why I wasn’t out enjoying the party. He had liked my work. I told him I had been fired.
The manager stepped in and said she couldn’t work with me because I was insubordinate. Nothing more. The owner looked at us for a moment, said he was washing his hands of it, and walked away. On the desk where he had been standing was a Christmas card he had left behind, signed with a familiarity I didn’t recognize.
The memory did not explain itself. It didn’t need to. It left the way it came, quick and unresolved.
Pity came a heartbeat later, unwelcome and straightforward.
The bridge did what it always does. Concrete gave way to asphalt. The lamps thinned. The city loosened its hold and let the road take us on. The rain did not change its mind.
The road demanded attention. The overpass was already behind me, dissolving into rain. I did not look again.
I can’t say with certainty it was her. I only know what I saw—a memory caught for a moment in the light of a rain-soaked streetlamp.
© Douglas Bayliss, January 12, 2026
This short work is shared freely and may later be revised and gathered into a single collection. For now, these works stand on their own.
Selected essays, short works, and publications: bayliss.com
