short story 1
Like every night for the past month, Marco De Lauretis sits in his car on the corner of Wellington Drive. As he takes a stab at the crosswords in the daily paper, the sun reaches its final resting point and darkness swallows the street; the only light peeking through the shutters of the bay windows of a grand Victorian townhouse across from him. He manages to mark a letter in the last empty box of his crossword and looks up at the house, letting out a sigh of frustration.
Why did you close the damn shutters, he thinks to himself as he turns the key in the ignition.
Just as he's reversing out of the drive, he takes one last look at the house and sees the lights switch off. He hastily brakes before reminding himself that his sudden movements will only draw attention. In a quiet neighborhood like this, residents tend to keep note of comings and goings. As he slides forward into his previous parking spot, he begins to watch the house meticulously.
The door slowly opens and Maria Bernard steps out. She looks pristine as usual, her thick curly blonde hair is scraped back into a low bun and gelled to her scalp. She stands tall in an elegant black pinstripe three-piece suit and Louboutins which produce a sharp beat as she heads towards her car. Obliviously, Maria drives past Marco and he waits a few seconds before following her.
Maria is a careless driver, something which Marco was surprised by. The books on the shelves in her living room are alphabetically ordered and she keeps an array of photography books on her coffee table, neatly laid out, even without the presence of visitors. Her kitchen cupboards are stacked with matching crockery and her clothes are grouped in order of colour in the wardrobe. The weaving in and out of traffic, with a lack of indicator usage, was something that contrasted with the rest of her life, or perhaps only what Marco had so far observed about her.
Twenty minutes later, Maria parks in a small side street in Hammersmith and makes her way towards The Mortonhall Club, a cocktail bar that Marco regarded as far too upmarket for his tastes. It was however typical for Maria to spend her evenings conversing with a crowd who appreciate establishments as snobbish as themselves. She nods to the doorman in recognition and steps inside the bar, disappearing from Marco's watchful eye.
Marco slumps down in his seat and considers his next move. Nothing has ever come from nights waiting outside The Mortonhall Club. Maria never leaves with anyone and simply returns to her apartment to sleep. Marco checks his watch and decides that an early night for him is best.
Today, she enters looking disheveled. Her tight curls flail haphazardly around her face as she scans the room for a seat. Despite Marco being the only customer sitting there each day, Maria has not once noticed him.
She dumps her tote bag at a table opposite and shouts after the barista with a Floridian twang, "A croissant as well please Jonathan!"
Marco nearly chokes on his tea. An American accent? That was a complete surprise. Maria normally speaks softly and Marco has never been close enough to hear her clearly. She has absolutely no online presence, so finding out about her origins was never possible from the comfort of his sofa.
Maria sits down hurriedly and pulls her laptop out of her bag. She begins typing erratically, barely even looking up when Jonathan places her latte and croissant down next to her bag. Occasionally, she pauses, rubbing her fingers across her mouth in some sort of nervous twitch as her leg bounces continuously under the table. Marco has never seen her so agitated before. She's always so composed and confident in her movements. Nothing seems to bother or shock her but today her imperturbability is completely absent.
Abruptly, Maria sits bolt upright and stares straight at Marco. "Can I help you?" she says, the soft voice Marco heard previously shocks him with its jagged and threatening delivery. Marco begins to stutter but Maria has already moved on and is fixated once again on her laptop. He opts to remain silent- despite her harsh tone, his presence seems to be more of a minor annoyance to her. Like the keyboard of her laptop, he seemed to be simply another object in the room that she wants to take her tension out on.
Whilst Marco is doubtful that Maria could bear a grudge against him, he still felt the sharp sting of the bitterness he received from her. He decides it was time to make a swift exit. He felt uncomfortable, almost irritated at her shift in persona. For weeks he had observed and constructed Maria Bernard and it felt as though their only interaction was shattering his reverent perception of her.
Marco steps out onto the street. The cold air pierces his nostrils as he breathes in and snowflakes gently touch his hot face, only to immediately sizzle away. He has a sudden heightened awareness of the thump of his pulse throughout his body and his breathing becomes short and desperate. He felt as though he was ballooning in the bundle of clothes he had bound himself in. A scarf gripped his neck and its wool grated against his skin. He desperately pushes his fingers underneath, attempting to loosen it and gasp for air. He staggers across the icy street and collapses on a wooden bench, appreciating its support as he concentrates on deep breaths. Exasperated, Marco fails to notice the man beside him watching closely.
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