#in which porco is gloomy and cold like the weather

[corner-stories]

polaroids and mist

Pieck Finger. Porco Galliard. First Meetings. Photographs. Rain. 2511 words. (ao3.)

Late November brings shorter days and longer nights. 

On his day off, he’s not sure what to do with himself. Yet when his alarm rings he opens his eyes and spends a few minutes looking at the ceiling while thinking about how tired he is. For a moment, he seriously contemplates staying in bed all day. 

When he finally rolls off the mattress, he takes a look outside his window to see Seattle being misted by a sky full of clouds. Days like this are usually as good as it gets, especially at this time of year. It could be another week of torrential downpours until the weather decides to clear up.

So after a breakfast of fruit and yogurt, he grabs his art satchel and wellingtons before heading out the door. 

With every step he takes he can feel droplets collecting on his hair. He’s used to it, even if he has to wipe water off his nose as he crosses the street. A bus takes him from North Beacon Hill to Pike Place Market. Despite the touristy nature of the place, he finds himself drawn to it whenever he has the time. 

Perhaps it’s the variety of people frequenting the place. The fisherman, the merchants, the tourists, or people like him — locals who just want something to do. 

He finds himself inside the market, keeping his hands deep in his pockets as he browses items that he admires but cannot purchase. His job fixing motorcycles is enough to keep his basement warm, but it puts limits on his income, barring him from things like flower bouquets or artisanal jellies. 

He finds a table and chair at a communal area, which he sits at while unpacking the clutter in his satchel. With his headphones playing a song he’s loved since high school, he opens his sketchbook and begins diligently drawing a neon sign advertising a butchery, of which hangs above a pathway full of guests. 

Drawing is only a hobby for him, so his linework is imperfect and his ability to shade leaves much to be desired. He had never felt the nagging desire to become an illustrator like the kids in his high school’s art department. He never thought he could make a portfolio good enough to get into a fancy art college, let alone scrape together the tuition to attend. 

At least he’s in a city like Seattle, one with a vibrant indie art scene and a determination to create something of the cold, dingy weather. 

When the sketch of the neon sign is complete, it’s nothing to write home about. So much of the markings scream amateur, but he’s okay with that. He’s not not too fussy with his art and likes it that way. After gathering his drawing materials back into his satchel, he goes to a nearby cafe to purchase an espresso before leaving the market. 

The rain remains light as he traverses the walkways of Waterfront Park. When he looks out towards Elliott Bay, the only thing he can think about is hopping on a ferry to Victoria and spending the weekend checking out Canada. He’s never been. 

Soon he finds himself at a pier just north of the market. It’s soaking wet and empty, so alone he walks between the empty damp tables and goes to the railing. He keeps his hands deep in his pockets as he takes in the sight of the Great Wheel. He wonders when he’ll finally take the plunge and actually ride the thing.

When he looks across the water he can see Bainbridge Island between the sea and the cloudy sky. He’s never been there either, he never had a reason to. The wind blows at his hair and makes him wonder when that reason will finally come. 

Taking in a breath, he closes his eyes and focuses on the mist creating water droplets on his face. 

Then Porco hears the sound of a camera shutter. 

He turns around and finds that he isn’t alone like he previously thought. 

Standing several feet away from him is a young petite woman. She’s clad in a wet rain slicker and sports a wooly cap above her long, dark hair. The contraption she’s holding is an instant camera. As she lowers it from her pretty eyes it begins to whir before dispensing a photograph out of the front slot. She looks happy with herself, but Porco is anything but. 

His face remains grim as he walks up to her. “Hey…”

“Sorry, it was too good of a picture.” She’s immediately apologetic. “I couldn’t let it go.” 

Porco sighs. There’s no point in asking her to delete it, but he wonders how she’ll feel if he asks her to throw it into the Elliott Bay. 

Somehow, she smiles lazily as she holds the photograph between her nimble fingers. She holds it up to him and he sees that the image has yet to develop. 

“You’re facing away, so no one can tell that it’s you.” 

Porco lets out a grumble. “Good.” 

He’s clenching his fist in his pocket as he walks back to the rail. He looks back towards the waters and wonders what else could happen to him today. First the rain making his hair look like a drowned rat and now his own person paparazzi — what next? He spends a few moments in silence leaning his elbows against the bars, his face remaining in a grimace. 

Then he hears footsteps beside him. The young woman places her arms on the railing as well, just like him. She gives him a smile so content that one could never guess that she had been standing in the rain. 

“I’m Pieck, by the way.” 

Porco tries not to scowl too hard. “What kind of name is Pieck?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Her voice is playful and he’s not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. 

In her hands she’s still holding the undeveloped photograph. “You’ll need to give it a minute.” 

“I know.” 

“I didn’t get your name.”

With another grumble, he relents. “It’s Porco.”

The grin on her face gets just a bit brighter. She spends a moment mockingly pretending to think. “Hm… now what kind of name is Porco?”

Porco gives her a stern, humorless look which she seems to find amusing. Whoever this Pieck person is, she has a clear fondness for teasing. 

Taking in a breath, he tries to refocus his gaze on the water. The Pacific Northwest continues to do what it does best and keeps the constant drizzle above the city.

“Listen, I don’t wanna get off on the wrong foot,” Pieck says to him, her voice sounding just a bit more gentle. 

When he looks at her, the playful look in her eyes has softened. 

“Could I buy you some coffee?” she offers, then holds up the undeveloped photograph. “Maybe make up for… this?”

At first, Porco is unsure what to say. They’ve just met and she’s being so forward. She’s looking at him like they’ve met before but he swears that he’s never seen her in his life. Not even in a dream.

Driven by curiosity, confusion, and the late November chill biting at his fingertips, Porco nods his head. 

“Alright.” 

…

…

…

They find a cozy cafe in the midst of Downtown Seattle, a place with warm, incandescent lighting and glossy, wooden tables. 

As they wait in line, Porco shakes the rain from his hair and he listens to her talk. Pieck Finger is apparently a student at the University of Washington — she’s only a few terms away from a biochemistry degree and is already making plans to enter grad school. It’s a lot more education than he’s used to, as his few years at community college can attest. 

Photography is a hobby she does on her days off, stemming from a desire to capture little moments in time. Instant photography is her forte, there’s just something romantic about holding a printed picture that she can’t deny — the moment is not merely just frozen, but actualized, something she can hold between her fingers. 

Porco is tempted to relate with his own habit of sketching, but a part of him tells him not to say it yet. They’ve only just met, afterall. He’s not sure how she’ll react to him waxing lyrical about how a part of him just melts away when he draws, then comes back to life in the aftermath of completing a successful piece. 

By the time Pieck’s oat milk latte and Porco’s hot chocolate is served to them, the polaroid photograph has already been developed. The two sit near the cafe’s window as they look over Pieck’s masterpiece. 

When he sees the image it’s exactly how she described it — he’s facing away from the camera all broodily and sad, staring at the unmoving Seattle Great Wheel under a cloudy sky. 

Perhaps it’s the lighting or the shade of Porco’s jacket, but the colors of the image are slightly desaturated. It gives the whole image a sense of unearthliness, disconnection, a separation from the norm. 

In contrast, Pieck is smiling from ear to ear as she holds up her picture. 

“This one’s a keeper.” 

Porco’s expression remains unchanged as he blows on his drink. “Guess so.” 

At this proximity he can get a better look at her messy, unkempt hair and the lazy look in her gaze. It’s only more confirmation that Porco has never met her before — he would’ve remembered those eyes. 

“I meant for you, by the way,” Pieck clarifies. “It’s your likeness and all…” 

Porco tilts his head to the side like a puzzled puppy. “Oh, uh… thanks. I thought you said you couldn’t let this one go.” 

Pieck shrugs. She puts the photograph on the table and slides it towards him. She doesn’t seem torn up at all. 

“Yeah, I did… but there’ll be others.” 

Morning drags into the afternoon as Pieck Finger and Porco Galliard continue to share what made them. 

Porco brings up how his parents still live in Tumwater, the town where he was raised alongside his older brother. Marcel was the star soccer player while Porco was the lacrosse team’s third best midfielder. Nowadays, Marcel is working at some start-up in Portland while Porco’s fixing motorcycles at a shop in the Industrial District. There had never been any favoritism shown to the Galliard Brothers, yet Porco had always gotten the implication that Marcel was the golden child of the duo, the one with better grades, more cheers when he scored a goal, slightly more post-secondary opportunities. 

Sometimes he imagines Marcel living it up in Oregon, doing whatever Pacific Northwest tech bros do to celebrate their apps making them a million dollars. 

All while Porco is here, living in a Seattle basement suite and drawing in his spare time. 

Deep in his heart, he reminds himself to give his brother a call. 

Pieck’s life fares differently than his. She grew up in Port Angeles with a single father, her mother passed away when she was young, and as a child she did ballet until an ankle injury took her out. Her father had been the one to encourage her to study what she wanted, and it was his kind words that helped her through every science fair and every test. 

It seemed only natural that she pursue a STEM degree, as well as branch out and look up where she could go for grad school. She’s trying to keep things realistic in terms of how far she can go, but out there she just knows that there’s a timeline where the odds are in her favor and she’s able to study chemical engineering at Stanford. 

When Porco asks why she chose biochemistry in particular, Pieck can only shrug — the gesture is not of disinterest or even lethargy, but of simplicity.

“I just think it’s neat,” she surmises. From the way she beams at him, it’s all she really needs to say. 

Once their drinks are finished, the pair leave the cafe with the photograph tucked into Porco’s pocket. Pieck has to head back to the University District, but she’s forward enough to ask for his number, which he gives out. 

He ends up accompanying her to a bus stop. At this point of the day, the morning drizzle has finally stopped, giving the citizens of Seattle a few dry hours before the sun sets. 

Pieck is surprisingly chipper as she skips to the stop. 

Porco is still unsure what about him drew her in, aside from a photographic opportunity that she couldn’t pass up. As Pieck fishes around her bag for her metro pass, Porco pulls the polaroid out of his pocket and gives it another look.

It’s the same as it was when Pieck showed it to him in the cafe — gloomy, gray, but framed so well that he understands why she had taken it. 

“You sure I should keep this?” he asks. 

Pieck looks just as confident with her offer as she was a few hours ago. “Of course. No strings attached, I promise.”

Porco rolls his eyes. As she filters through the cards in her wallet, he catches a very brief glimpse of several photographs she has tucked inside. He sees one of her next to an older man who has her nose and eyes, which Porco presumes is her father. There’s also one of what’s obviously a young Pieck holding a puppy — perhaps a childhood pet?

Then his eyes glance upon her student ID. 

“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever met someone with the surname ‘Finger’ before,” he remarks as runs a hand through his hair. 

“Then you better get used to it,” Pieck assures him in a confident, husky tone.

Porco tries to ignore the burning sensation in his face. 

Moments pass and a bus pulls up at the stop. The door opens and Pieck turns to give him one last look. 

“See you around, Porco” she says before stepping onto the vehicle.

For a reason he doesn’t even know, he cannot take her eyes off her as the door closes. As the bus begins to drive off, he watches her find a seat behind the rain-covered windows and puts on a pair of headphones. 

He can only give a wistful wave as the vehicle drives away. 

…

…

…

Porco spends the rest of his day off in his basement suite. He removes his rain-soaked clothes and puts a pair of dry socks on his feet. To pass the time before a good night’s sleep, he takes out his sketchbook again and begins to draw in the light of his desk lamp. 

He could draw anything, yet the only thing on his mind is the girl with so many plans in her life while he feels stagnant, the girl with a head of long, messy hair and a pair of beautiful brown eyes, the girl who will be the last thing he sees before he finally goes to sleep that night. 

Maybe he has seen her somewhere before.