Forecast: Regret – Episode 2

She appeared just past the second lamppost—trench coat clinging like a secret, umbrella in hand, striding through puddles like the laws of physics were optional.

Julian knew trouble when he saw it. It usually wore red lipstick, a miniskirt, and a tight monogrammed sweater—the kind of outfit that said “daddy pays the rent but I hold the lease on chaos.”
Today, though, trouble wore duck boots that quacked with every step and a look that could curl paint off a Buick.

She didn’t look at him. She didn’t have to. Women like that didn’t look; they summoned.

“Lost your umbrella again?” she said, pausing by the bench where Julian had been pretending not to argue with a squirrel.

“It fled the scene. Honestly, I think it’s seeing other people.”

She didn’t laugh. Just smiled—barely—a slow tilt at the corner of her mouth, like a private joke that hadn’t decided whether to trust him yet.

They stood in silence, rain dotting her umbrella like Morse code for bad decisions. The space between them held history—not romance, not quite—but something forged in long nights, bad coffee, and one too many favors exchanged with no names attached.

Then the birds attacked.

Not big ones. Not Hitchcock’s apocalyptic squad. These were small. Spiteful. Moist. They dive-bombed like feathered torpedoes with a vendetta against hats.

Julian flailed. She calmly finished a sip of coffee.

“I told you not to use that conditioner,” she said, ducking as one bird performed a tactical swoop. “Lavender-scented. They think you’re a meadow.”

“Then why are they hitting you, too?”

“I might have rubbed some of it on your collar.”

Julian blinked, now soggy and betrayed. “Why?”

She sipped again, her expression as neutral as Switzerland on a Tuesday. “Science.”

One bird landed triumphantly on the umbrella. Another did an aerial split and flipped him off mid-squawk.

Julian sighed and slumped onto the bench, defeated. She sat beside him, leaving an equal six inches of space and chaos between them.

For a moment, the world fell quiet—just rain tapping the concrete, the occasional rustle of wings, and that unspoken thing that always hung between them.

Maybe it was love once. Maybe just recognition. Like two people who survived the same fire and never spoke of it.

“I curl my hair in the mornings just for this,” she muttered, brushing a wet strand from her face.

Julian didn’t reply. He was too busy wondering if dignity could be taxidermied—or if maybe, just maybe, this ridiculous kind of connection was all the grace some of us got.

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Author’s Note:
This piece is a continuation of the Forecast: Regret series—a flash fiction collection built on misadventures, poor choices, and the occasional squirrel assault. I wrote this story using the prompts from SoCS (Stream of Consciousness Saturday) and Esther’s Weekly Writing Prompt, which continue to challenge and inspire me in strange and delightful ways.

As always, I try to have fun writing fiction—because if I’m not enjoying it, I can guarantee Julian isn’t either.