A squall...

A squall sprays over the Atlantic. Divisive tributaries and ebbing currents advance it, over and under, round and round, towards the mainland. Hunched on low Cornish cliffs a graying brick home leans against the animosity of the streaking clouds and mounting winds. The buildings extremities rattle under the growing sky-swell as a darker shape fingers their way along the scarred coastal thoroughfare, fighting away from the warmth against whipping gorse and branch. Back at the harassed house, a windows orange glow alludes to two figures within.
In a low kitchen a young man and woman prepare food, back to back, separated by a table. The wind outside is dull, outmatched by the snap of the woman’s knife on a chopping board and the pairs silence up till now.
“When did he get back?” she says, turning from the board with a huff.
Prompted, the young man turns, half crouched, onion in hand. “Dunno, first thing I heard he was ringing about this place.”
The woman stares out the window despondently “Yea, well, he hasn’t talked to me about his absence either.”
“Absence! He just went on holiday,” says the young man, passing the onion “even if he is being quite about it.”
The woman turns back to the copping board and rolls the onion in the palm of her hand “Well I just, just, hate it. Not the house, I mean, maybe, but, you know, just everything. He invited us here for gods sake, where is he?”
Consulting, it seems, the larder, the man grunts to himself. “Oh, look, ok, so, this was his idea,” he replies, turning back “he can do what he wants. He was like this before you know.” On saying this, the woman flashes him a glare over her shoulder “Of course you know, but, he’s only human.”
“Well, I’m worried.” and with this, the woman resumes chopping, interrupting the start of a reply. The man deflates and goes back to sorting the cupboard. On the hob a pot is coming to the boil and its cheap tin lid starts to rattle and jump as, outside, the wind picks up and wails in symphony, washing the seaward side of the house in a spat of rain. The woman reaches over and adjusts the temperature. “He said he wanted to reconnect. But where is he now?” she complains, almost to herself.
“He hasn’t been here since way back when, you-know, maybe he’s still adjusting.” Fronts the man “Shit, I don’t know weather he’s even been in England for the past few months, ok. No wonder he’s acting up.” he says, closing the larder door slightly louder than intended.
“Well it’s just rude!” Now it’s the woman’s turn to deflate, and she leans heavily on the counter, knife still in hand “He’s out there” she says, waving at the ratting window “And I can’t get him back.” New rain and wind assail and a crack in the backdoor frame allows in a new, chilly draft. “He’ll catch his death”