It rained on their wedding day.

She remembered rushing up the steps from the car to the door, carefully wrapped in plastic by her fussy mother in an effort to keep away the drops that tried to leave tell-tale dark spots on the white silk of her dress. She remembered the flowers being rushed inside, where the water ran off in tiny tear tracks, dripping onto the carpet of the church. She remembered the close, damp air, the fragrant, musty smell that hung in the air as she stepped carefully down the aisle. His hand was clammy around hers when she reached the alter, and the rings had a faint mist on their little pillow.

She fled down the steps of the church behind him as the guests threw confetti before them, biodegradable paper confetti that turned into a wet, soggy, slippery mess as they trampled it into the wet pavement. No one tried to wrap her in plastic as she left, and many dark streaks and spots appeared before she was piled into the car.

Everything had changed that day. She had expected it, but even expected change is unpredictable.

She sat alone in the studio, surrounded by the things she had once loved best. It was with a certain amount of guilt that she admitted to herself that she still did love them best. It was hard to find space that wasn't occupied with her previous works, carefully protected from criticizing eyes and little, dirty fingers. They were propped in chairs, some actually hanging on the walls, others propped in chairs, laying on any flat surface that could be found.

The painting before her was almost done, and she turned her mind back to her task as she added the final, perfecting details.

Outside the streaked glass door, the striped cat paced, meowing to be let in. The baby monitor beside her crackled, and a tiny voice cooed for a moment, and went silent. He would be home from work soon.

She remembered the dull colors, the paleness of the sky, the stark black and white and grey that dominated the entire day. She remembered the slants of rain between her, around her, between her and the world, between the two of them.

She chose her smallest brush, and carefully dipped it in the mixture of turpentine and water sitting close at hand.

The brush flowed across the canvas, blurring, dulling, streaking.

Perhaps someday she could make him understand why, since that day, she had always felt as though she were looking through rain.

Her work completed, she regarded it for a moment. Then she looked around the studio, and somehow found space for it amidst all the works of her married life. She gave one final, hopeless look around at the walls lined with streaked and blurred paintings, and then locked the door behind her as she stepped back into her not-quite-perfect life.