Psalm 119:31
Thursday 15th November: Michael, Maria's young man, the boy who pronounced his name "Mikhail," was in the coffee shop. Maria was late. Very late as it happened. He was drinking his third "Garibaldi" coffee, espresso with a twist of lemon rind. Occasionally he glanced at the door in expectation. Then for a while he stopped himself, on the watched-pot-never-boils principle. Instead he thought of her. Her long dark hair so sleek and deep dark brown; her full face; the bright summer dresses she wore even as winter closed in; her laughter and her energy. He was more than in love with the girl. He was besotted.
She was twenty minutes late now. He tried her cellphone but it flipped to answer. He wasn't worried. Not worried she'd stand him up anyway. Maria was not that kind of girl. He planned to ask her to marry him again. He had tried twice before and she'd refused. This time just maybe. However long it took. He would wear her down. He knew she loved him really. She just hadn't come to realise she did.
And still she didn't come. He was annoyed now. Annoyance meshing the genuine worry he had begun to feel. He tried to phone her again. Answerphone still. He wasn't gonna leave yet another message. He'd go round. She lived in one of those cheap high-rise rentals down by the cathedral. Not that they had started cheap. But units had been reserved for affordable housing and - over time - they had all become cheap. He didn't really like her living there but her Mom was in the same block and she wouldn't move. When they got married he would move her out. That for sure.
Still, Maria could take care of herself. She carried Mace and one of those screech alarms. He had made her do that. He paid the bill for the coffee and gave an overgenerous tip. He did that. Tipped too much because he couldn't bear embarrassment. He knew the waiter knew he'd been stood up. Knew it because he always came here to meet Maria - for no other purpose. And it was a small place.
Mikhail drove across town to Maria's. He parked on the street risking a ticket.
Maria's apartment was 65A on the sixth floor. The door was slightly ajar, which was crazy, in this place at least.
Mikhail pushed at the door and the vista transformed. No more the chipped dirty plaster of the hallway corridor walls. Here in Maria's space all was perfect. The pictures, the furniture, the fresh well-painted walls. He called her name then. Nothing.
He rapped on the already open door. "Maria? You here?"
Still nothing, so he moved inside, his disquiet growing with each step. The small living room was as he remembered it. Tidy, polished clean, ornaments and child-like toys, a cabbage patch doll on the sofa, a teddy bear on the bookshelf, a brass pig as a doorstop with a money-box slit. He moved to the bedroom beyond. The door to that was also ajar. The curtains were part closed, the room half in shadow.
And there she lay, fully clothed, asleep on the bed. "Maria, for heaven's sake." He stepped across the room to the bedside. He noticed a glass of water on the table. He reached to shake her. Then he froze and he sighed the one word, "No . . ."
Then slowly Mikhail reached out to touch her. But he couldn't. His hand sank to his side and his knees folded as he started to sob. It was much too horrible. The gash in her throat too final. She was lost to him forever.
Maria lay on her back, her beautiful hair spread wide as if deliberately to frame her exquisite face. The blood was splashed onto the coverlet in a crimson smile, like the laugh of a clown. Maria was undeniably dead. Her throat cut low to the shoulder. Her own pretty mouth sagging open in shocked protest. Her eyes, mercifully, closed.
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