LatinosUSA

I. Dale

A young girl steps into the afternoon, and the day lightens, though the sky is low and the air already smells of rain. I’m walking my dog when I notice her two houses away, tall for her age, blond hair streaming beneath a blue helmet as she rides her scooter down the sidewalk. Her mother drifts back toward the steps.

She coasts to a stop and holds out her hand. “Hi, I’m Ellianna. Can I pet your dog?”

She’s on the edge of her teens. Her eyes, blue as the helmet, are steady in a way that surprises me. I shorten my grip on the leash and tell her he’s playful, that he might jump. She laughs, sets a foot down, and reaches out anyway. The dog rises but doesn’t leap. She rubs his head with both hands, calming him more easily than I have in months.

“What’s your name?” she asks.

“Dale.”

“How’s your day going?”

“Good,” I say, and it’s true.

She asks what kind of work I did. I tell her I was a newspaper writer, that later I taught journalism and creative writing.

“Do you miss it?”

I think of classrooms, of voices talking past one another, of the moment I knew it was time to leave. “Not so much. I still write a little. Mostly for pleasure now.”

“Well,” she says, stepping back onto her scooter, “enjoy the rest of your day.”

I walk on with my suddenly quiet dog. The air has thickened; rain is coming. I turn toward home, shaping her name into sentences — like a weather change announcing itself before the first drop.

~~

II. Ellianna

The air feels heavy, like the sky is holding its breath. I push off on my scooter anyway, letting the wheels hum against the sidewalk. Mom says it’s going to rain soon, but she always says that when she wants me close. I tell her I’ll stay on our block. She hesitates, then nods and steps back.

Two houses down, a man walks a French Bulldog — squished face, funny little body that wiggles when it’s happy. The dog sees me first, does a half-hop, and I laugh. The man looks up, surprised.

I coast to a stop. “Hi, I’m Ellianna. Mind if I say hello to your dog?”

He tightens the leash. Adults always warn you about things they secretly worry about themselves. I put one foot down and reach out anyway. The dog rises but doesn’t leap, settling instantly under my hands, tail stump wiggling.

The man watches us. He looks like someone who used to smile more than he does now.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“Dale.”

He seems quiet, thoughtful, maybe a little lonely. Not sad, just reflective.

“How’s your day going?”

“Good,” he says.

I ask what he does for work. Adults like that question. It gives their lives a shape.

“I was a newspaper writer. Later, I taught journalism and creative writing.”

He says it like he’s handing me something fragile. I hold it carefully.

“Do you miss it?”

“Not so much. I still write a little. Mostly for pleasure now.”

I nod. I don’t know much about writing, but I know what it looks like when someone talks about something that once mattered.

“Well,” I say, stepping back onto my scooter, “enjoy the rest of your day.”

He smiles — small, real, like a door opening just a crack. I push off, letting the wheels carry me home. The air thickens; the first drop is close. Behind me, he and his dog walk on, quieter than before. I feel like I left him a little lighter than I found him.

Maybe that’s what happens before the rain — everything shifts, just a little, waiting for the sky to let go.