The Bloody Rain

Grey and dark and forbidding.
From the windowed view that Pecos afforded, in between the bars that barricade the windowed view, the rain fell.
Relentlessly, unremittingly.
It had been threatening to fall since morning, and in the late afternoon, it started to pour. And it poured and poured and poured.
The light was dull, and a dirty flood of water flowed down the street outside. People waded through slush, while yet others waited under awnings - waited for the bloody rain to stop - and it never did.
Poured and poured.
I sat with the raconteur, silently.
We didn't talk, and the music didn't play - there were no lights.
All you could listen to was the rain outside, and the occasional peal of thunder.
More rain.
And I looked at the guy who sat in the corner, near the stairs - he'd sat there for as long as we were in - and I asked the raconteur, gesturing towards him - about what his story was.
"Nothing", grunted he, sipping his own beer, " Lost his love".
"How did he manage that, the poor schmuck?" I asked, hoping for a tale.
It rained harder.
"How does it matter?", said the raconteur.
"He lost her, and she ain't coming back. Sometimes, that's all that bloody matters."
Outside, it rained harder still.