When Paul answered to his own name

Some mornings open like false doors: you think you’re stepping into your usual routine, but the day quietly reroutes you toward a version of someone you thought you knew. That was the mood hanging in the air when Victor pulled up in front of Paul’s house and noticed a stylish woman waiting by the gate — calm, composed, almost expectant.

When he parked, she approached his window as if everything were perfectly normal.

— Let’s go.

Victor froze mid-blink, trying to align reality with what he was seeing.

— Miss… sorry, I think you’re at the wrong address.

She laughed softly, the kind of laugh that already knew him.

— I’m not at the wrong place. It’s me. Paul.

The world tilted just enough to make Victor grip the steering wheel.

— Paul… what?

She — he — sighed, as if finally delivering a confession to the universe.

— My wife saw the pictures from our fishing trip. The girls you guys brought “for company,” the beers, the bonfire… She said that’s no place for a married man. I insisted it was just fishing, nothing scandalous. So she said I could go again, but only if I went in fishnets.

— Yes, fishnets, Victor. She said that if I wanted to “act single,” I should at least dress like a tourist attraction.

Victor let out a strangled laugh.

— But… those aren’t clothes for a fishing trip!

— I know — she/he shrugged, lifting her small backpack. — But rules are rules. And don’t worry: my bikini’s in here. If I’m going anyway, I might as well get a tan.

And right there, between concrete, awkwardness, and a very red skirt, Victor realized this fishing day would be unforgettable — even before it started.