Rosey Posey

Meaghan often did her studying between her college classes and work in a small coffee house on the avenue. It was quiet in the afternoon. Only a handful of customers, folk music streaming. She sat with her notebooks and laptop, shoes off, feet tucked comfortably underneath her.

On a blustering Wednesday she sat working on a creative writing assignment when cold wind coming in through the open front door made her look up with a sudden shiver. She thought she should recognize the young woman coming in.  It’s a small town and she should know about every person in it at least by sight, especially if they appeared, as this young woman did, to be near her own age, and there was familiarity about the eyes.

After that quick look, Meaghan returned to her work, having decided the girl was a stranger. But she couldn’t get over the feeling that this was someone she knew from somewhere. She was more convinced when the girl approached the counter to order a mocha from the barista.  The voice, not entirely recognizable, did have a tonal quality that reminded her of someone, but of who?  Meaghan couldn’t quite place it.

The girl took a seat at a table nearby and the two made eye contact. “Do we know each other?”  The girl spoke.

“I had that same feeling when you came in,” Meaghan answered, “but I can’t place you. Were we in school together or something?”

“I don’t think so.  I’m not from around here, at least not yet.”

“Well, I’m Meaghan.  Welcome to town.”

“Good to meet you. My name’s Rosemary. I’m not actually a resident yet but I’m here for a second round of interviews for a job and I think I’ll get it so I may be moving here soon.”

“Congratulations or at least good luck with it,” Meaghan said.

The two women fell to talking after that and by the time Rosemary had finished her mocha the two were chatting like they had known each other all their lives.  The more they talked the more Meaghan was filled with a feeling of uncanny familiarity. She finally acknowledged that saying, “I can’t get over this feeling that I know you, Rosemary, or that I did once.”

“I’ve had that same feeling since we started talking. Oh, and call me Rosey. Everyone does.”

“Rosey.  Rosey Posey’” Meaghan smiled.

“What?”

“Oh, sorry,” Meaghan said.  “I was just saying that to myself.  When I was a little girl I had an imaginary friend and I called her that. Rosey Posey.”

“Well now that’s just too funny,” Rosemary replied. “That was my nickname as a child and I also had an imaginary friend.”

“What was her name?”

“I’m almost hate to say it now. Her name was Meaghan.”  The two women flashed looks of disbelief at each other, then burst into fits of laughter.

“Well then I don’t see how we can’t be friends,” Meaghan said after the two had finally given up their giggles.

“I agree,” said Rosey.  “I think we are fated.”

“And now I can finally thank you for saving me when I was six,” said Meaghan.

“Really?  I want to hear about this.”

“Well,when I was six I was quite a tom boy.  I was Always climbing as high as I could into any tree I could find.  One day I fell out of one in my own back yard, a serious fall I would say because my mother found me underneath the tree unconscious and with what turned out to be a serious concussion.  She said the only reason she had come outside to check on me was that she heard me calling for her.  But I was completely out so I couldn’t have been calling for her.  I
told her that it must have been Rosey Posey that she heard.”

Rosemary’s smile went suddenly sober, vanishing with much of the color in her face. “Meaghan. I tell that same story about myself and it ends in the same way, with me telling my mother that it must have been Meaghan’s voice that she heard.”