by Foster Trecost
… but that changed when I got caught in the rain.
I’d passed the shop before but always kept walking. When I went in, it wasn’t to buy anything. I was en route to an interview, my first in forever. I’d dusted off my suit and ironed a shirt, then threaded its collar with the only tie I could find. But before I got where I was going, a storm snuck in and threatened my carefully curated ensemble. That’s when I darted through the nearest door. Without taking note of my surroundings, I turned to watch raindrops bounce off the cement. They made a sound I had heard before but wasn’t sure where, so I closed my eyes and went looking for it.
It wasn’t until she spoke that I pulled myself back to the present. She asked if I needed assistance but her tone, leaning toward accusatory, made it clear I’d chosen the wrong door. I spun around to beg forgiveness but before I could say anything, my focus relocated, shifting from her to the decadence that surrounded her. The scene came as such a surprise, it allowed my mind to unclench and instead of an apology, I uttered the sound I’d been looking for: fried eggs.
Annoyance and confusion presented themselves in equal parts but each outweighed her patience. “The rain,” I said, attempting an explanation. “It sounds like when my mom fried eggs for breakfast.” This encounter with nostalgia, however brief, came with the heavy dose of regret that often accompanies such remembrances, and her features softened. Maybe she tracked the scent of a sale but I prefer to think she understood something about me even before I understood it.
She asked if I liked what I saw and we spent the next hour deciding what I liked most. After totaling our selections, she asked my name and I nearly came out with Frank but said Francis instead. It sounded softer, more appropriate, but she wasn’t convinced: “How about Francine?” It’s been many years since a rainy afternoon forced me through doors I almost missed. They called me Frank back then but I’ve been Francine ever since.
© Foster Trecost
Foster Trecost writes stories that are mostly made up. They tend to follow his attention span: sometimes short, sometimes very short. Recent work appears in Club Plum, Flash Boulevard, and Roi Fainéant. He lives near New Orleans with his wife and dog.
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