I wrote this story after a visit to my hometown. My grandfather had died the year before, and I found his old London Fog raincoat. In one pocket, there was a packet of sugar (which he used to swipe frequently) and a very old baseball card of a younger me. It was as if my grandfather had left me a message. I wanted to write something inspired by this moment that was a little surreal, a little romantic, that also referenced an old family house fire. I also wanted to create a narrative that embraces life. And finally, I wanted to write a story imagining my grandparents’ first encounter. My grandfather’s name was Francis, and my grandmother’s name is Clara. They once lived in a house at 6300 Acacia Avenue. 

…

A boy sits staring out the window of a car that is not old or new. He runs his fingers through his hair. Sitting with one foot on the center console, he places his arm on his raised knee and opens a notebook. 

…

Waiting in line is a tall young man with medium long black hair and perfectly straight posture, an elegant grace, eyes that look as though they are looking right through you, and a face that has a permanent expression of confusion and sadness. This man has a smile that reminds many of the sun peeking through the clouds after a storm.  

“Sandwich for Francis?” A shout from the front of the line. 

The young man nods and raises his hand. 

He collects his sandwich and walks away. On his way out he approaches a condiment counter. As if trying to be seen, he grabs a handful of sugar packets and shoves them into his pocket. He runs his fingers through his hair. 

Outside, the air is crisp and clean. The light is diffuse. A surreal mood traps the city. Francis takes his earphones out of his pocket and puts them in his ears. Earphones with no music. 

“Winter this year is supposed to drop to minus 30,” someone says as he walks by. 

Hands stuffed in his pockets, with a mouth full of turkey, he walks down the block. Francis walks up the steps of his 80’s style apartment stoop. At this time of year, the area has a feeling of absence. There are no leaves on the trees, no cars on the street, no birds pecking for food. Francis, without moving any other piece of his body other than his hands, pulls his keys out of his pocket and opens his front door. He walks into his apartment and wraps up the remains of his sandwich. He looks down. 

“Well… That sucks,” he states in the voice you would expect someone named Francis would have: sophisticated and monotonous. He had spilled the remains of his turkey club all over his coat. He drops his coat on the floor and leaves it. 

Francis’ apartment has only five pieces of furniture, qualifying it as more of a studio. The five pieces of furniture are his bed, fridge, sofa, grandfather clock, and a table. Francis slowly drops himself on his bed and looks up at the grandfather clock. 

“Two a.m. and still light outside? The world in all its confusion.” He laughs and pulls the blankets over his body. He reaches down and picks up his mouthguard from the ground. 

Francis wakes up to light streaming directly through his one window onto his face. He runs his fingers through his hair and wipes his eyes. Francis unsticks his mouthguard from his mouth and crawls out of bed. He takes the two steps to the kitchen and slowly brushes his teeth. Reduced to just a t-shirt he steps over his coat and picks up his wallet. He pulls one of the sugar packets out of his jacket pocket, rips it open, and downs the packet. 

Walking down the street he is given many odd looks. 

“Hey man, ya need a jacket?” someone hollers. Confused, Francis keeps walking. The second the people are out of sight, he suddenly realizes he is cold and starts shaking uncontrollably. Still shaking, he notices the sandwich shop to his right. The ratio of people-to-building is quite disproportionate. A little bit out of curiosity, but mostly out of hunger, Francis enters the jam-packed sandwich shop. You would expect someone freezing cold and fairly hungry to have little to no patience. But, true patience can only be achieved through impatience, and Francis knows this more than others. 

Waiting outside, Francis observes the actions inside the Sandwich Emporium. The store is filled with a wide variety of individuals. But Francis proudly notes in his mind that, although separated by clothes and stature, the customers are all just a pack of irritated and rude people. 

From the front of the line, a flash of thirty-two teeth shines through the dark cloud of starved consumers. 

Francis blinks. 

For a moment the smile appears again, this time a head of white and black hair follows it. Francis' eyes grow wide. He pushes himself through the crowd while quickly apologizing. There, with both arms propped up on the counter and her head resting on her fist, is a girl with white and black hair. Not black and white. White and black. 

She smiles directly at him. “Smile” is too simple of a word to describe this experience. For Francis, it reminds him of when he was thirteen, sitting in bed, listening to Lo-Fi music while staring at the reflection of his room through his window. 

Cheerful emo. 

Happily in pain. 

The beauty of the world in its entirety. 

“Excuse me! There's a line!”

Francis’ jaw closes.

“What can I get for you?” The white-and-black-haired girl asks. 

Francis, being Francis even in pure shock, was still quite elegant. “Turkey club?”

“All sold out.”

“I guess... a BLT then?” 

“What name should I put with it?” 

“Francis.”

As he waits, he notices her nametag: Clara. She waves him over and hands him his sandwich. She looks down and smiles. 

“Are you going to have sugar with your sandwich today?” Clara asks. 

Francis opens his mouth, then closes it. “Nice to meet you Clara.” He grins and runs his fingers through his hair. In some sort of long-legged scurry, he makes his way to the condiment counter and grabs a single sugar packet, and waves it at her. She laughs and gives the world a partial glimpse of her bright smile. 

On his way out he freezes in his tracks. Maybe because he is cold, maybe because he thinks of something, maybe because he is quite peculiar. Although Francis would never ever admit it, like many people in this world, he suffers from something cruel and destructive and painstakingly common. He suffers from loneliness. So after a moment or two, he turns around and reenters the little sandwich emporium. Elbowing his way through the crowd he sticks his upper body out of the crowd. 

“Hey. Clara,” he asks while trying to maintain as much elegance as he can in his current position. 

She makes her way to him and smirks, “Yes..?”

“What time do you get off work?” he asks, blushing slightly.

“Um…” She looks down and makes an act of checking her wrist. “It depends on what you’re asking.” She smirks. 

“Oh. Alright.” Too awkward to make a move, Francis pushes himself back through the crowd. 

“Hey, Francis. Tomorrow.” 

“That would be nice. Five tomorrow then?” 

“Dang, you’re awkward. Meet me outside tomorrow at five,” she waves and backs off into the kitchen of the shop. 

Walking down the street, he runs his fingers through his hair and smiles. This smile is a smile of true joy. And cold. 

“Dang.” He shivers and lets out a laugh. 

…

Standing outside of Bottom Drawer, Francis looks up at the not-old but not-new sign. Francis has shopped here for a large percentage of his life. When he was younger, he enjoyed thrifting. At some point, it was all he could afford. Later, shopping there was for fun. And now, well, it is a mixture of both. 

Bottom Drawer, even more than most second-hand stores, has an abundance of practically everything clothing-wise. So when Francis leaves the Bottom Drawer empty-handed, he is disappointed and surprised. 

Exhausted Francis walks down the street. Familiar trees, familiar houses, and familiar cars scatter the block. He walks up to a house, every inch boarded up. 6300 Acacia Avenue. Back when he was younger, the house was beautiful. At every time of day, light streamed through every room of the house. Delightful sounds and delicious smells would linger during the night. Many loved ones visiting often. Francis smiles at the memory. He tests the door handle.

“Death is inevitable,” he whispers and opens the door. 

Inside, everything is burnt black or destroyed. Francis steps around the rubble and touches familiar areas. The chair his grandfather would sit at every time of day. The counter where his father used to make his morning coffee. Where his mother’s desk sat while she worked. Where his grandmother’s grand piano used to lie. The piano he would every so often hear. Francis steps into his old room. The only room spared from destruction. Francis touches the peeling paint and the broken windows. 

A closet is to his left. He opens it. 

A coat. A notebook. A necklace. 

Tears well in his eyes. He picks up the coat. Inside the pocket, he finds a sugar packet. Face dripping with tears he looks at the Sharpied name on the coat’s tag. Francis. His grandfather. He picks up the notebook. The notebook is bookmarked with pictures of him at his first baseball game. Tears stain the yellowed pages. 

Dear family,

I am thinking about what I will do when I have to say goodbye. 

Death is inevitable.

- Francis

Francis clutches the three platinum flowers on the necklace. Cheerful emo. He picks up the two items and puts them into his coat pockets. He exits the house, no longer a home. He wipes the tears off his face and runs his wet fingers through his hair. 

...

A young man in a long beige coat walks down the street. His face unrecognizable. He has the grace of pride, newfound hope, and excitement. In his hand, he clutches a necklace. Over and over again he repeats a long-forgotten tenet.

“Life is inevitable.”

...