My Mother Recognized My Fake Fiance From an Autumn Night Five Years Ago
It was the only sound in the apartment besides the low hum of the refrigerator in the corner.
I walked down the three flights of stairs at a quarter to eleven, the wooden steps creaking under my boots.
The air on Maple Street was cool and smelled of damp leaves and chimney smoke from the older houses near the ridge.
Frank’s barbershop was two blocks down, the red and white pole turning in its glass cylinder by the entrance.
I could see Frank through the window, his white apron tied neat around his waist as he swept a pile of grey hair from the floorboards.
I pushed the door open, the brass bell above the frame giving a short, metallic ring.
Frank did not look up immediately, but he set the broom against the wall and wiped his hands on a clean white cloth.
“Mia,” he said, his voice booming in the narrow room. “I was wondering when you would come by.”
“I wanted to say hello,” I said, staying near the door.
“He was here early,” Frank said, nodding toward the empty leather chair in the center of the shop. “Caught the eleven-fifteen bus north.”
