I came back home, the familiar quiet of the house pressing in on me the moment I stepped through the door. A small, cream-colored card awaited me, tucked neatly under the welcome mat. I bent down, my fingers tracing the embossed edges, already knowing what it was. It was another one of those condolences cards, sent by old Mrs. Hefinshire, who had been diligently sending them to me every single day for the past month since she'd heard of my stepmother's death. She was a jolly old woman, with a perpetually rosy complexion and a habit of wearing brightly colored cardigans, a stark contrast to the somber messages she penned.
During the first few days, I had been more annoyed than touched. Who was this stranger, sending daily letters to my house, reminding me of a grief I was still struggling to process? On the fifth day, when the mailman, a lanky young man named Kevin, brought yet another one, I told him, with a sigh of exasperation, to take it back. He just blinked at me, his eyes wide. "I cannot do that, ma'am," he'd said, his voice earnest. "Not to old Mrs. Hefinshire. I may be accountable for her death if I do such actions." His sincerity, and the sheer absurdity of the statement, had disarmed me.
So, out of a strange mix of curiosity and a desire to avoid being responsible for an elderly woman's demise, I went for a visit to her house. That's when I found out she suffered from an ailment of the brain, a gentle fading of memory that caused matters to slip out of her mind sometimes, including the fact that she'd already sent me a card that day, and the day before, and the day before that. Since then, her cozy, cluttered living room, filled with the scent of lavender and old books, had become my sanctuary. That is where I had my evening tea, a splendid change of pace from this large, lonely, empty house that felt more like a mausoleum than a home.
And funny enough, I just seemed to realize that even though I had been living in this house for one month, navigating its silent halls, I had not once truly looked around the neighborhood. I knew none of my neighbors, save for old Mrs. Hefinshire. It was a strange thought, a testament to how cloistered my life had become.
I decided I would visit her tomorrow, for today I had an appointment with Lisa. An appointment that filled me with a familiar dread, yet a flicker of hope.
I tried to wear the clothes that looked the most fashionable to me, which, in my limited wardrobe, translated to a baggy black trouser and a big, oversized hoodie for a bit of comfort, because the evening air was turning chilly. I paired them with my worn white sneakers. I tried to look as presentable as possible, and, more importantly, not "an eyesore," as my sister Lisa so affectionately claimed my usual attire to be. I even attempted to tame my long brown hair, pulling it into a loose, low ponytail, hoping it wouldn't betray my inner turmoil.
After getting ready, I checked my phone for the location we were to meet. To no one's surprise, it was a bar. A loud, crowded, smoky bar, judging by the address. I sighed, already feeling a headache brewing. I texted her, my fingers flying over the screen:
"Lisa, you know I can't hold even a single drink."
Her immediate reply, a cascade of emojis and exclamation points, was typical Lisa: "Chillax sissy don't you know I'm the queen at this, I got you!"
"But I hate. The. Noise. The crowd. And the men hitting on you," I typed back, each word a protest.
"Relax u sound like a boomer and the men that's what you went for anywho," she shot back, her bluntness making me wince.
"Are you drunk, Lisa? It's not 7 yet."
"Lisa?" I waited, but there was no response. By this time, I was locking the door to the house, the click of the deadbolt echoing in the sudden silence. I decided that I would send a voice note, a stern warning, then hail a cab to go get her back to her apartment before her "episodes" truly returned, turning her playful chaos into something more concerning.
As I put my phone back in my pocket – for security reasons, I never carried a bag, preferring the anonymity of empty pockets – my gaze drifted across the street. On the terrace of the opposite house, a man was walking towards the front door, his silhouette stark against the setting sun. The last golden rays cast long shadows, marking the depressions beneath his cheekbones, carving his features into a striking, almost sculpted, form. I couldn't tell the color of his eyes from this distance, but a foolish, hopeful part of me whispered, I hoped they were green… The guy had straight, sculptured shoulders that made me think of an athlete, a powerful, graceful presence even from afar.
For a reason I couldn't quite place a finger on, my heart started racing, a frantic drumbeat against my ribs. My imagination, usually so subdued, went free rein, painting scenarios, possibilities. I had to get a closer look, you know, just to keep my mind at ease, to quell the sudden, inexplicable flutter in my chest. I walked over to the edge of my own terrace, leaning slightly, trying to get a clearer view. That's when I saw a lady open the door, her arm reaching out, and let him inside. The sight hit me with a surprising force, a pang of something akin to disappointment, quickly followed by a sharp dose of reality. No, Satan, not today. No reason, no matter how compelling, would make me interfere with a beautiful thing as marriage, not for my own selfish reasons.
My cab had arrived, its yellow lights pulling up to the curb. I walked over, my movements a little stiff, and got in.
"X club, sir?" the driver asked, his voice gruff.
"Yes, ma'am," I corrected him, a small, automatic correction.
And the cab took off. The ride was a blur. I found Lisa, already a whirlwind of manic energy, her words slurring. I couldn't think straight, my mind still replaying the image of the man and the woman, the closed door. Even though I had many chances to achieve my objective for tonight – finding a partner – I was so distracted, so utterly consumed by that fleeting glimpse. I got so drunk, far beyond my usual limit, the alcohol doing little to numb the strange ache in my chest. When Lisa saw me, she seemed to take it as a challenge, getting so drunk herself she almost jumped off the club window, claiming it was a water slide. It was about time I called her husband, Gary, to come collect her. After that, a hazy ride home, and I collapsed into bed, sleeping today off, hoping to wake to a world less complicated.