So a friend suggested that I was in favor of Francesca as a love interest for Fraser. That simply isn't true! Francesca deserves better--she deserves someone who admires and values her for the red-hot package of dynamite womanhood that she is.

Disclaimer: The character of Francesca Vecchio belongs to Alliance Communications. I take a moment to worship her unique qualities without intention of disrespect, or hope of personal gain.

by Melanie M (melanie.m@erols.com)

She has been a part of my world for as long as I can remember.

And I have never been a part of hers.

She walks into the shop (Cha Shooky Doo!), and my heart lifts at the sound of her voice, the flip of her hair, the challenge of her strut. A figure so small I could lift her high into the air if I dared, but a presence so large I can't even bring myself to speak.

A presence so large it haunts my dreams.

What do I have to offer her? I may not be a cyber-millionaire, but I do well enough. I have a great apartment near the ballpark in Wrigleyville, my Honda's almost paid for, and Pop's gonna leave me the business when he retires in the next decade or so. There's a lot of other guys from the class of '84 out there flippin' burgers or pumpin' gas. Hell, her own brother-in-law's had five jobs in the last two years.

Why do I know that?

We were in school together, but she wouldn't remember me. She was a star in a distant constellation then, laughing and gossiping and owning the halls of Pius X High School with a circle of girlfriends who drew wicked delight in vexing the nuns with their short-hemmed skirts, skin-tight sweaters and bright, glossy lipstick. Too remote to pull a clarinet-playing band-geek son of a butcher into her orbit. My friends made fools of themselves pursuing the stacked blondes on the cheerleading squad or the statuesque glamour-girls in the drama society, but I sat day after day at the far end of the third table in the cafeteria and dreamed about Francesca Vecchio.

"How much?"

She stands there, staring seduction from beneath those black lashes, tapping one pointed toe impatiently on the linoleum as I place the paper-wrapped package on the counter. I somehow manage to stumble on my way to the cash register, my own size-eleven Reebocks conspiring to make me look like a fool.

As if I weren't doing that well enough on my own.

"Hey! I don't got all day, okay?"

"No. I mean, yeah. Sorry." I feel the heat rise across my face--I'm blushing, dammit. Say something! Say something! Say something! "No charge."

"I beg your pardon?"

"It's. . . it's on me. No charge. Uh. . . if. . . if I. . . ."

Where has my tongue gone? She has the money in her hand--if I don't do it now, I'll lose my chance. I have to say something now, seize the opportunity before it slips away.

"Francesca, w-w-would you consider. . . I mean, if you're not busy. . .and if you're not seeing anybody right now, although I'd be very happy for you if you are, but I haven't noticed you with anybody and you don't have a ring and. . . and I'm not seeing anybody and I don't have any plans for. . . for next F-Friday. . . ."

She's looking at me. Actually looking at me, not past me or around me or through me. She's looking right at me like she can't decide whether to smile or not.

"Would you like to go to the singles' dinner-dance at St. Michael's with me?" I somehow manage to finish the question. I try to grin, cock my head in a nonchalant manner, show her how totally at ease I am with myself, with her. Somehow, I know it's not working--the corner of my mouth just twitched and I suspect I've developed a nervous tic.

"So what you're saying is: I go on a date with you, and you don't charge me for the meat?"

What? No--no, that's not what I meant. Not at all! That's so lame, so stupid, so incredibly asinine--I would never insult you or your honor by suggesting that there could be any quid pro quo, I'm just trying to offer a gesture of friendship to a woman I've loved and admired for the last twenty-five years--

Why haven't I said anything out loud?

"No thanks." Her voice is musical, honey-warm and smooth even in her scorn. She drops a five on the counter and takes her package. The bell jangles as the door opens, and again as it closes.

The pork round was worth $6.72.

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