Thirty Years Cold

1

Frankie sat bored as the train rumbled along the tracks. He absentmindedly watched drops of water race across the glass as the edge of the city sped by. As far as the eye could see were the same crumbling buildings, with the same blurry dots populating it. The same flickering signs advertising every dying business; gone too fast to possibly read from his place on the train. It mattered not to Frankie, as he could recite them as if they were written on the back of his hand.

He considered sacrificing the last ounce of power in his cellphone to call family; to check in and chat. A bit of small talk– though forced– would help greatly. He stared at the display, his thumb idling just over the button. He shook his head and shoved it back into its pocket. Frankie settled for sparing whoever his speed dial landed on, choosing not to waste their time and his battery. He had no real topic to pursue anyhow. The train had to be getting close, talking as he got off would only distract him and cause an accident.

Frankie leaned back into his seat and groaned to himself, already tired of the gloomy rain. His thin coat was going to bite him the moment he reached his stop and left the warmth of the cabin. There hadn't been a sign of thunder in sight.

Frankie loved the rain, it was one of the best parts of living where he did: it was always pouring. But he wasn't so enthusiastic when caught unprepared and got soaked to the bone for his hubris.

The overhead intercom made its presence known for the coming announcement, Frankie knew his stop was next, and it felt bittersweet. His boredom would be replaced by a frantic dash for cover. He was cheered up slightly at the sight of a dozen-odd furred ears perking up over various headrests along the cabin as they always did during announcements. He had to hold back a laugh every time he saw it.

Frankie braced himself as the train slowed to a stop. The downpour looked a lot less welcoming than usual. Even more so as he stood just a small door away from it. It opened and he stepped out, flinching as his scalp was immediately turned into ice. He ran a hand through his hair and flipped part of his coat over his head as a makeshift hood to save himself while he jogged away from the platform. Nature's assault could only be halted momentarily as he descended a covered staircase to the asphalt.

The rain was coming down in sheets, and the wind was howling. Frankie huddled under the occasional storefront awnings and oversized umbrellas as he moved, trying in vain to stay as dry as possible. He was less than successful; constantly wiping away the buckets of water dumped on him with his sleeve.

Frankie could hardly see in front of him. As predicted, he was soaked to the bone, and his clothes were soon to be plastered to his body.

Frankie's brisk pace turned into a sprint through the rain, his feet pounding on the pavement. He could slip, but Frankie didn't care. He simply desired shelter and food in his belly.

The thought flashed across Frankie's mind just as quickly as the lights of a comfy café flew past his eyes. In an effort to halt in his tracks, his momentum skidded him through a pool of runoff and onto his back as his legs flew in front of him.

Grumbling to himself, he sat up; resigning himself to being drenched all while glaring at the dim glow of the café's sign as he scrambled to his feet. He shook himself off and ran a hand through his drenched hair as he peeked through the window.

The interior held sparse patrons. A tired officer enjoying a coffee at the counter for their evening break. A quiet couple sharing dinner and company in a booth. Teens gathered around a table, occasionally snagging fries from a collective basket as they talked. All served by an aged waitress stationed behind the counter.

Frankie's eye drifted to a lone woman sitting in the booth situated just in front of the window he was currently staring through, typing away at a laptop. He stepped away before she noticed a Peeping Tom and became uncomfortable.