Trigger warnings: suicide, loneliness, depression, violence

Milan observed the lady seated at the corner table in the café: back straight, hair neatly done, outfit meticulously styled. Only upon close inspection, would the trained eye spot the tiny holes typical of worn, overwashed clothes.

Milan didn’t want to do it. He sighed, recalling what happened to Jay. This dread was exactly why he had given Jay extra time. Critical time, which Jay then used to follow through on his own.

Even worse, coverage of Jay’s self-inflicted death spread rapidly through illegal dark web channels, triggering others towards that final, irreversible step now that someone else had succeeded. Preventing these deaths, was one of the reasons why Agencies, such as Milan’s employer, had been instituted.

Over recent decades, eradicating pain had become a major global priority as populations aged. Rapid advancements in technology, particularly in cell repair and cell renewal, had been successful. In a world where physical pain was diminishing and nearing elimination, the consensus was that emotional pain—such as loneliness, despair, or depression—would be equally solvable.

Hence, when self-inflicted deaths rose and even led to widely covered mass events worldwide, a heated political debate emerged about human agency. The political views of the international majority led to the global establishment of Agencies. These agencies offered a wide range of preventive counseling, community services, and activities that individuals once spotted and identified as ‘at risk’ (codes 1 through 3) were required to participate in. Anonymous verifiers, like Milan, ensured that no one reached code 4 (a successful self-inflicted death) or, worse, code 5 (a mass event).

The lady, Marianne, had been identified as code 3. He was observing her for her final verification. Milan’s job was to intervene and prevent her from reaching code 4.

The instructions were clear. His job was clear.

In Marianne’s case, due to her advanced age, the coroner’s report would probably state heart failure or a blood clot. The needle prick would be undetectable. The Agency had other protocols, such as orchestrating unfortunate accidents and rare aggressive diseases, all ambiguous enough to avoid tracing back to them. Although everyone was aware of the Agency’s existence, it was still considered a taboo for the bereaved, having to acknowledge that the deceased had approached code 4. The result of the Agency’s protocol would still be tragic and cause grief, but it would avoid the despair and potential widespread impact of a code 4 event.

Marianne absentmindedly rubbed her wrinkled arm. A modest smile on her lips, she made a point of thanking the waitress who had just brought her a coffee. Once the waitress turned away, Marianne’s smile vanished. Moments later, Marianne forced a smile back and glanced around approvingly. Milan’s trained eye noticed the slight tremble at the corners of her mouth from the effort.

He glanced at the clock above the counter. They had been here a while. Soon, Marianne would tidy her table and return her cup to the counter. She’d sign off with a chirpy “See you next week! Have a great shift!” Sometimes the busy waiters would acknowledge her goodbye, more often the best Marianne would get was a polite smile or a nod in her direction.

The city was just large enough for her to regularly visit a few cafés without anyone noticing she was alone each week, speaking only to the staff and the occasional passerby seated nearby. Others didn’t know, as he did, that she would return home exhausted, turn on the hot water, and sit on her bathroom floor—sometimes still clothed, sometimes crying, or just staring into space.

The sharp clang of a kitchen worker hitting the bell for a waiter jolted him back to his task.

Marianne deserved more time. Although in vain, she had been making the required effort—attending counseling at the Agency’s community centers and participating in social events. All he needed to do was adjust the scores on the final verification form, indicating that she was doing better.

However, there was the issue of Grover, his recently assigned coach, sitting beside him and observing their target with a disciplined, experienced eye. Grover had to temporarily approve all of Milan’s verification forms.

Milan’s stomach tightened as he watched Marianne lean toward the young woman at the next table, who was indecisively scanning the menu. Ever so friendly, Marianne recommended various dishes and asked if the young woman was local, trying her best to extend the conversation. He knew Grover was mentally checking a box on the form. It hurt to see Marianne’s forced effort to connect.

The hurt was too familiar, too much like the incident with Jay. He had given Jay, his then target, the benefit of the doubt. Instead of completing his final task, he had left Jay alone. A few hours later, he received a message with a GPS location from Nathaly, his manager: “Get here right now, it’s Jay, code 4.” Milan still remembered the immense weight that sank into the pit of his stomach.

Upon arriving at the scene, Milan was immediately debriefed by Nathaly, who took his verification report. She repeatedly questioned why he hadn’t followed procedure, noting that his report identified Jay as high risk. Realizing he had lost his target and shaken by the bright ambulance and firefighter truck lights, the sobbing onlookers, and the solemn first responders, he finally admitted to Nathaly, with a heavy heart, that he had overheard Jay telling an online friend he felt low but planned to set up a new appointment with one of the Agency’s counselors. Milan had desperately wanted to believe Jay.

He turned to Grover. “Aren’t you ever worried your verification might be wrong? Or that we might finalize the tracking too soon?”

“You can’t think about that kid,” Grover replied. “Our instructions are clear, and the verification form is precise. We don’t take this lightly. We track and verify behavior over an extended period. It’s about patterns, consistency, and whether individuals utilize the available counseling and support services. As you well know now, it’s better to act too soon than too late.”

It was true, Milan thought, the checklist was independently validated. It captured observable behaviors that the trained eye could see, hear, smell. It even included a covert touch to assess body warmth and tension. All observable behaviors indicating a risk of unresolved emotional pain and loneliness, spiraling further downward.

However, the checklist didn’t account for how a person was feeling; the quiet thoughts they so carefully hid in their heavy minds. Afraid to be misunderstood or exposed. Embarrassed, too ashamed to open- up about the nightmares that haunted their nights. These were the very things Milan had been experiencing since the incident with Jay. Milan hadn’t told the Agency counselors, or even Grover, how the scenes of the incident kept flashing before his eyes at night and kept him awake.

He turned to Grover. “Do you ever think about quitting? Looking for something else? I mean, doing something else?”

Dark eyes fixed on Milan beneath a furrowed brow. “You know better. You don’t quit a job at the Agency.”

Milan nodded dismissively, trying to brush off his previous question. He shouldn’t have asked. Although there was broad support for the Agencies’ mission, cases were classified to prevent any doubts from the public about issued death certificates. Therefore, once someone was part of the Agency, extensive non-disclosures and other measures were firmly set in place. Additionally, employees were inclined to stay silent, as no one wanted to discover that their family member, friend, or neighbor had blood on their hands from an either a successful, or failed verification.

Marianne had left the café some time ago. It was time. The verification form was clear. Milan knew what he had to do. Grover reviewed the form, nodded, and signed off.

“I’ll stop by Marianne before heading home. See you tomorrow.”

Grover tapped the table as a farewell.

Milan slowly approached Marianne’s apartment. As he turned onto her street, he bumped into her walking a small dog.

Her eyes grew moist as she looked at him. “I know who you are. Why you’re here,” she said, before lowering her gaze. “I tried, you know,” she said, looking at him pleadingly. “I really did. I attended counseling, various social activities. They’re pleasant, like a nice dress in your favorite color. But eventually, you come home, alone, and you undress. And the emptiness underneath is just as stark as ever.”

She grabbed Milan’s arm. “Still, I don’t want to die,” she pleaded, her eyes wide and teary. “I want the throbbing hurt to stop, but I don’t want to die. I’m not going to hurt myself. Really. I just need more time.” She nodded intently.

“I… I can’t leave Waffles alone,” she said, glancing at the dog. “Liza, my neighbor, his owner, injured her foot, so I’ll be walking him for a few weeks. I can’t let her down; she’d be inconsolable. I can’t…. Not now, not here.”

Sensing his hesitation, she added, “Maybe after these weeks, I could join the animal care program at the center?…. I haven’t tried that yet.”

She sounded hopeful. Her interest in caring for the dog seemed genuine. He looked at her pleading face. She stared back at him, her eyes dark, her lips pressed thin. She held the leash a bit too tightly, which he dismissed as nervousness due to their encounter.

“I’m sure I’ll get better,” she said with a hesitant smile.

He wanted to be convinced. She had met all the criteria; she was a verified code 4 risk…. But perhaps the dog was exactly what she needed—something to care for, while helping her neighbor. Milan felt his last bit of resolve fade.

“Okay… Promise me you’ll enroll in the animal care program tomorrow. Don’t wait. Tomorrow!”

Her smile widened, perhaps a bit too much he thought, as she gently patted his arm. “Thank you. I will.”

Her shoulders were slumped—maybe she was tired. Milan gave her one last look from head to toe, reassuring himself. She continued nodding her thanks. He turned and walked off, gradually picking up his pace as his steps grew lighter.

Just as he was about to turn the corner, he heard a thud, like a heavy bag of groceries hitting the ground, followed by frantic barking from a dog. He turned around to see Grover quickly approaching. Behind him, Marianne’s body lay slumped on the sidewalk. Grover seized his elbow and urged him forward. “Move!” he sneered through clenched teeth. “Once verification is complete, you don’t decide who stays or goes. You follow the procedure. I gave you a chance, I really did,” he hissed. “You know what I have to do next.”

Milan hardly had a chance to mumble an explanation, before everything went black.

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“Look!” Gilverto pointed to the far end of the creek. “Those are Southern Lapwings. Their greyish-brown and white coats have distinctive bronze, purple, and blue hues near their wings, like shoulder pads.” He chuckled, handing her the binoculars.

Following his directions, Adanna peered across the water’s edge until she spotted the birds. She smiled. “These binoculars are amazing. It’s like the birds are right in front of me.”

He murmured approvingly.

She returned the binoculars and readjusted herself on the porch chair cushions he had laid out for them on the sloping hillside. She had for once agreed to indulge his peculiar birdwatching hobby, knowing that in the next few weeks, he would be spending more time with his daughter, her husband and kids who were arriving this afternoon from the Netherlands. He would be spending time with them, and with Elrita, his wife.

“Have you heard from Mylène?”

“She sent a video of her, Michael, and the kids in the family group chat just before boarding the plane.”
Adanna’s stomach tightened at the mention of the family group chat. “I suppose they’re excited about their vacation.”

“Yes, they are,” Gilverto replied. “Tomorrow, we’re heading to the beach at Bandabou. I’m marinating the meat this afternoon, and Elrita is making her famous potato salad.”

Adanna flinched at the mention of Gilverto’s wife.

“Is Elrita also going to the airport?”

“No, she’ll meet us at the house. She’s going ahead to make sure everything is clean and ready for Mylène and her family. She’s worried that I missed something.” Gilverto rolled his eyes.

He perked up and aimed the binoculars at some small brown, white bellied birds that had just landed in the creek. “Killdeer! What a nice surprise!” He handed the binoculars to her. “Take a look. Do you see the markings across their breast? It’s like they’re wearing two black necklaces, one slightly longer than the other.”

She nodded and slowly moved the binoculars, scanning the rest of the creek. A young flamingo, its feathers still greyish-brown, was scurrying in the water, searching for food. Its pink parents watched vigilantly, foraging and keeping an eye out for threats.

She was aware of Gilverto beside her, looking at her approvingly as she showed interest in his beloved birds.

She stifled a laugh. How had she ended up here? Watching birds, early on a Saturday morning, with this man. A married man.

His wife lived in their apartment in a newly developed, vibrant area of the historic city center, enjoying the companionship of her friends and, according to Gilverto, other lovers. He stayed in their matrimonial house. They remained friendly, casually interacting at grocery stores or restaurants and spending time together when their children and grandchildren visited.

Adanna lowered the binoculars and looked at Gilverto. “So, Elrita’s heading to your house now?”

“Yes,” Gilverto replied. “She knows I’m not home. She can use her own key.”

Adanna stared at the creek, where a breeze had ruffled the surface, sending low waves rippling through the otherwise still water. The compulsion was too strong; she had to ask the question she already knew the answer to. “Why don’t you get a divorce?”

“Dushi, you know why. That would mean selling the house, the apartment, sorting out the family business, dealing with lawyers, paperwork. In the end, Elrita and I would just end up living as we are now. No, life right now, is just too short for that.”

She sighed, lifted the binoculars, and turned her upper body away, focusing on nothing in particular at the creek’s far edge.

At times, she still felt uneasy. Gilverto and his family might be okay with the arrangement, but starting a relationship with a married man had always been a no-go for her. In addition, on their small island, everyone knew he was married and she was the other woman—a label she never wanted for herself.

She had wanted what he once had—or at least what he had at the beginning: two people choosing each other, a shared life, marriage, kids, and now grandchildren. Adanna’s life had taken different turns; she had chosen and sometimes unwillingly stumbled down a path different from what she had foreseen when she was younger. Gradually, her ideas of how her life would be, how she would love and be loved, had crumbled away. These notions were now nothing more than faded dreams.

Her younger self would never have been in this relationship. Her younger self…She glanced down at her arms, noting the light brown, wrinkled skin. Age spots had appeared. Her hands, too, were slowly turning into those of an older woman, with paper-thin skin and pronounced veins.

Gilverto gently placed a hand on her thigh, interrupting her thoughts. He sought her eyes. She looked at him—a warm, kind face with deep crow’s feet and wrinkles that accentuated his smile.

“Thirsty? I brought us some fresh ‘awa lamoenchi’ with a bit of sugar, just the way you like it.”

She smiled. He hated sugar in his lemon drink, preferring the mouth-puckering sourness.

He rolled onto his hands and knees, then pushed himself upright. As he stood, an “oomph” escaped his lips. “Young as a buck,” he laughed, rubbing his stiff knees before heading toward the car parked about fifty meters away.

“This is a nice place,” she said once he returned and sat next to her. “Do you come here with your birdwatching group?”

“No, this is my secret spot,” he said with a mischievous grin. “I’ve been coming here for years. Not many people know about it—it’s a hidden gem in a busy neighborhood.” He turned to observe the creek. “I’ve never brought anyone here, not even Elrita or the kids. I thought it would be nice for us to spend some time here together, today.”

She glanced at him, sitting at ease, enjoying the view and her company. She felt her chest expand. Maybe she had finally found her own unconventional, but loving path.

A special thanks to Birdwatching Curacao for organizing birdwatching trips and educating us all.

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Selena was diep de achtertuin in gelopen om de praatjes met de jarenlang uit het oog verloren kennissen te ontvluchten. De aanwezigen waren naarmate de avond vorderde, als vanouds, steeds luidruchtiger en jovialer geworden. De afgedankte badkuip die speciaal voor dit soort gelegenheden in de tuin leek te staan, was al een keer bijgevuld met flessen wijn, bier en zakken met ijs om alle drank koel te houden. Op verschillende statafels lagen schalen met overgebleven toastjes naast half leeggedronken flessen bier.

De muziek stond net hard genoeg aan om de beschonken feestgangers ritmisch op de klanken te laten meedeinen en net zacht genoeg zodat aangeschoten mannen elkaar met sterke verhalen en dronken anekdotes konden aftroeven. Het stemgeluid van de mannen was laag en zwaar, bedoeld om indruk te maken op de dames die met verhitte gezichten roddels uitwisselden en zo nu en dan in een overdreven schaterlach uitbarstten.

Selena’s blik gleed over de omgewoelde weilanden die aan de tuin grensden en zich weids voor haar uitstrekten. Smalle mistbanken hingen laag boven de grond waardoor de bomen die in de verte het land begrensden in de lucht leken te zweven. Langzaam voelde ze haar kalmte en daarmee ook haar vastberadenheid terugkeren. Sinds ze de uitnodiging voor het feest had ontvangen, had ze naar deze avond uitgekeken. Dit was haar kans om hem te spreken. Na al die jaren. Na het ongeluk.

Ze rolde met haar schouders en liep op het huis af. Een man liep haar kant op. Zijn blik was op de grond gericht zodat hij zich op de ongelijke grond niet zou verstappen. Hij had haar nog niet opgemerkt. De man was iets korter dan zij. Hij had een wat vierkant postuur en zijn schouders hingen licht naar voren. Selena herkende gelijk de contouren van de man van toen die ze nu net zou gaan zoeken.

Instinctief stapte ze naar voren om hem met een stevige omhelzing te begroeten. Halverwege de beweging deinsde ze terug. Na dat rampzalige jaar en de beperkte werkzaamheid van vaccinaties, omhelsde je uit voorzorg nog alleen naaste familie of hechte vrienden. Ze kon nog steeds moeilijk aan de nieuwe situatie wennen. Ze wilde haar armen om zijn nek slaan en de geruststellende druk van zijn omhelzing om haar lichaam voelen. Het werd een onwennig knikje vanaf de nu zo gebruikelijke fysieke afstand tussen twee mensen.

‘Ehm… Hi… Ik…Gecondoleerd… Ehm..Hoe…Hoe gaat het nu met je?’ De nadruk op ‘nu’ was te sterk, alsof ze hem ter verantwoording riep. Selena inhaleerde diep in de hoop haar begroeting weer terug haar mond in te zuigen. Tevergeefs.

Een donkere waas trok over zijn ogen. ‘Ja. Ach. Wat valt daar over te zeggen.’ Met de punt van zijn schoen wreef hij wat aarde voor zijn voeten weg.

‘Ja….. Natuurlijk. Ik. Ja…. Stomme vraag….Dat is natuurlijk niet te…’ Haar adem stokte. Ze zocht verwoed naar de juiste woorden. Maandenlang hadden de woorden in haar hoofd een verhitte strijd met elkaar gestreden. Ze waren over elkaar heen getuimeld, vormden zorgvuldige zinnen en spatten na een kritische ontleding weer uit elkaar waarna het gehele proces weer van voorafgaan begon. Nu leek ze elke grip op deze zorgvuldig voorbereide gedachten te verliezen. ‘Ik…Ik ben blij… dat je gekomen bent…fijn….fijn om je te zien.’

Hij schraapte zijn keel. ‘Ja, je moet wat hè. Het huis uit. Ik wilde wel even langskomen’. Hij wees met zijn kin in de richting van het huis van de gastheer. ‘Voor hun. Als dank.’ Selena knikte en keek hem wat langer aan.

De jaren hadden diepe groeven in zijn gezicht achtergelaten. Vlak boven zijn oren omringde wat grijsbruin haar een verder kaal hoofd. Hij wreef met zijn hand over zijn voorhoofd. Selena herkende het gebaar waarmee hij jaren geleden het tropenzweet dat zich steeds boven zijn borstelige wenkbrauwen verzamelde wegschoof. Ze kon haar glimlach niet onderdrukken. Even keek hij haar, alsof betrapt op een ondeugd, aan voordat op zijn gezicht een jongensachtige brede lach verscheen.

Hij stapte vooruit en liet zijn rechterhand rusten in de golving tussen haar nek en schouder. Ze drukte haar wang uit automatisme tegen zijn warme hand. Zijn blik verzachtte: ‘Vertel eens, hoe gaat het met jou? Woon je nu hier?’

‘Met mij gaat het goed. Ja…Ik ben weer terug. Mijn toekomst lag toch niet daar….Ik begin hier weer opnieuw, terwijl er zoveel van mij daar achter is gebleven. Ik moet dat loslaten. De persoon die ik was, het leven dat ik leidde, allemaal voorbij. Het voelt alsof ik voorgoed afscheid heb moeten nemen van een deel van mezelf….. Dat valt me zwaar….. Dat had jij vast ook toen.’

Hij kneep zijn ogen samen en liet haar los.

‘Ik… ik bedoel, het afscheid toen je vertrok. Niet het afscheid daarna natuurlijk……’ Ze schudde haar hoofd. ‘Afscheid nemen van een woonplaats is natuurlijk niet te vergelijken met… met..’

Hij hoestte kort. ‘Hmhm.’

‘Ik wilde je.… Ik probeerde nog aan jouw telefoonnummer te komen. Ik wilde je een bericht sturen. Iets. Ik vond uiteindelijk via de telefoongids een adres waarvan ik dacht dat het van jou kon zijn…. ‘ Heb… heb je mijn kaart ontvangen?’ Ze zocht in zijn ogen naar een reddingsboei, iets waar ze zich aan kon vastklampen. Haar moeite was vergeefs, zijn ogen waren zo ondoorgrondelijk zwart als de zee tijdens een zwaar bewolkte nacht.

‘Misschien is het niet aangekomen? Of…. Nou….het kan ook zijn dat zo een kaart je niet bijgebleven is. Je hebt vast zoveel berichten ontvangen…Het was ook zo onwerkelijk…Ik kan me niet voorstellen…Ja…. Dus ja, dan kan je dat allemaal niet…’

‘Ja het was erg veel. Nog bedankt dan.’

‘Ik ben er zo… ja… zo van geschrokken. Ik wilde je laten weten dat ik aan je dacht. Ik wilde…’

‘Ach schat, hier ben je!’ De vrouw verscheen als uit het niets aan zijn zijde. Diepliggende blauwe ogen keken hem bezorgd aan. De huidplooien in haar zongebruinde gezicht en decolleté verrieden een in de overige seizoenen blanke, kwetsbare huid. Ze schoof haar arm om zijn middel en drukte zich tegen hem aan. ‘Ik kon je al een tijdje niet vinden.’ Ze streek zacht met haar handpalm langs zijn wang. Na een laatste blik op zijn gezicht, keek de vrouw Selena vragend aan.

Selena stak haar hand ter begroeting op. ‘Selena, aangenaam…’.

De vrouw keek beurtelings Selena en daarna hem aan. Hij schraapte zijn keel. ‘We kennen elkaar nog van vroeger. Selena kende….’ Hij slikte even. ‘Nog van toen, van die tijd…. daar.’

‘Ja…..juist, dat klopt! Ik ben sinds kort weer in het land. Ik was niet hier… toen ehm… laatst. Om afscheid te kunnen nemen. Ik vertelde net dat ik overal had gezocht naar een telefoonnummer. Ik heb uiteindelijk een kaart gestuurd.’

De vrouw knikte bedachtzaam. ‘Oh, ja.. bedankt. Ja, een moeilijke tijd. Het was natuurlijk erg onverwacht. Zo’n overlijden is zo zinloos.’

De vrouw keek de man liefdevol aan en kneep snel in zijn hand. ‘Vanavond zijn we eindelijk weer even een avondje uit, gezellig met vrienden. Hè lieverd? Kom, laten we naar binnen gaan. Lize en Ronald willen jou vast nog spreken. Ik kan nog wel een drankje gebruiken. Bovendien, het koelt hier in de tuin nu snel af.’

Haar hand schoof van zijn middel naar de ruimte tussen zijn schouderbladen. Zachtjes duwde ze hem met haar handpalm richting het huis. Hij verroerde zich niet. Ze liet haar hand zakken en liep richting het huis. Haar zomerse tuniek bewoog soepel mee met haar zelfverzekerde stappen. Na een paar stappen draaide ze zich om en knikte ten teken van afscheid naar Selena.

Selena keek naar de man die, verzonken in zijn eigen gedachten, bewegingloos tussen haar en de andere vrouw in stond. Zoals hij daar stond, moest ze terugdenken aan een standbeeld dat in de tuin van een landhuis stond dat ze als kind vaak had bezocht. Het stenen beeld was ooit de trots geweest van de beeldhouwer en een symbool van hoop en verbondenheid voor de vele bezoekers van het landhuis. Het gebruikte steen was echter niet geschikt om blootgesteld te worden aan de zoute zeelucht, de verzengend hete zonnestralen en de haast onzichtbare kleine zandkorrels die gedragen door de passaatwind ongenadig het steen schuurden. De kenmerkende details en contouren van het beeld vlakten af, het steen werd op sommige plekken poreus. Uiteindelijk werd het grauwe en verweerde standbeeld uit de tuin verwijderd en kon het onkruid ongeremd groeien over de ontstane lege plek.

De man schudde een paar keer met zijn hoofd, alsof hij hiermee zijn gedachten weg wilde jagen. Hij keek Selena aan: ‘Dag, lieve schat.’

Hij keerde zich om en liep de vrouw met zware stappen tegemoet. De vrouw sloeg een arm om hem heen. Ze drukte hem kort tegen zich aan en loodste hem naar het vrolijke geroezemoes bij het huis.

Selena stak haar arm uit. ‘Ik…’. Het geluid klonk niet harder dan de ritseling van een klein nachtdier. Ze ademde uit en vertrouwde fluisterend haar woorden toe aan de koele avond. Ze wierp nog een laatste blik op het huis waar het paar allang in was verdwenen. Het was tijd om deze plek te verlaten.

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What was her husband’s paisley-patterned tie doing here, tucked away in a semi-transparent box in the corner of their neighbor’s garage?

Viola only noticed the box when she dropped the one Mistral, their neighbor organizing the garage sale, had asked her to fetch and carry outside. The box had slipped from her hands, causing the inflated beach ball on top to roll directly against the semi-transparent box tucked away in the corner.

She barely noticed the semi-transparent box as she leaned down to fetch the beach ball. She was in a hurry to get back outside to Mistral’s front yard, where her husband Richard and a few neighborhood friends were gathered. The garage sale was transforming into an evening of drinks and Mistral had already lit the BBQ. She could hear Richard’s enthusiastic Cheers! accompanied by the clinking of cold beer bottles. She had been enjoying herself, a feeling she never thought she would experience again after that dreadful afternoon nearly three years ago.

It was only when she straightened up, ready to leave the garage, that a glimpse of the fabric caught her eye. She recognized that paisley pattern.

While preparing for the garage sale, Mistral had likely removed items, forgetting about this box tucked further back. Viola pulled it out, placed it on an empty shelf, and lifted the lid for a closer look.

She rummaged through the box and grabbed the tie. Hesitantly, she turned it over to check the label. If it was in Spanish, it would confirm this was Richard’s tie. They had bought it during a vacation in Spain when, unexpectedly, they were invited to a formal dinner. The limited selection in the tourist city had left them with this one tie.

The label read, “Alma del Torro, hecho en España.” Her heart dropped. Her hands trembled as she examined the various items in the box more closely. Yes, this was Mistral’s memento box.

She had known Mistral for close to ten years, starting off as friendly neighbors and gradually becoming best friends. They had shared many bottles of wine while gossiping about their neighbors, work and relationships. However, it was the stories of Mistral’s many sexual escapades with mostly young men during her husband’s frequent business trips to Miami, that stood out the most.

Viola enjoyed Mistral’s hilarious and sometimes cringeworthy sex stories. Mistral craved attention and loved sharing her tales afterward. She brought her stories to life with stolen mementos. Her collection included socks, belts, T-shirts, the occasional boxer shorts, and even a spandex thong from a particularly active beach vacation.

Their friendship hadn’t been just laughs and good times. Mistral had been there for her and Richard from the very first moment on that horrible afternoon, all through these past years.

It had never crossed her mind that Mistral and her husband would… Would what? What did the tie prove? She shook her head in disbelief. She would have to ask her husband, ask Mistral.

As she prepared to put the box back, she suddenly spotted a mustard-yellow polo shirt with a red logo buried beneath other items. She grabbed the shelves to keep from falling. Her ears rang. Fighting against a wave of nausea, she reached into the box and pulled out the polo shirt. She recognized the hideous yellow logo of the cement truck company. An image of that afternoon flashed before her eyes: the bare-chested truck driver who had run around in a panic-driven frenzy while her son… Could this be that truck driver’s shirt?

That afternoon, three years ago, Viola was in the kitchen while her seven-year-old son, Timothy, played alone in the yard. Fascinated by the workers constructing Mistral’s new patio, Timothy would sit on the wall ledge and watch them operate heavy equipment, drive the tractor, and prepare the soil for the concrete floor that would be poured.

Alarmed by Mistral’s hysterical screams Viola had rushed outside to find Mistral standing at the wall, looking bewildered. The only words she could manage were, “There’s been an accident. Timothy..” as she glanced back and forth between Viola and the mustard-yellow cement truck with red markings parked in Mistral’s driveway. A bare-chested man was screaming into a mobile phone.

Viola started to run towards the cement truck, but the truck driver intercepted her, throwing in his full weight. She only remembered fragments of what he was saying, “Wall… Climbed up ladder…. Slipped…. Fell.. Barrel.. Inside….It’s turned off now. Stay here, lady, stay here.” As the horror of what happened to her son set in, all the air was knocked out of her. Her legs gave way, and she collapsed to the ground.

Richard appeared. As did ambulances, police cars and fire trucks. A plan was agreed on. A plan which included lifting Viola up from the ground, and carrying her into the house.

Behind the closed door, she heard the sounds of the truck, the men shouting and then, the eerie quiet, she could only assume because her son’s body had appeared from the barrel. There was no sound of traffic passing by, even the birds were quiet. A few seconds passed, and the men got back into action, recovering the remains of Timothy’s battered body from the thick cement paste, placing him on a gurney and transporting his remains away. The funeral had been with a closed casket.

Mistral stayed with them during those first days, attending to the door, calls, and messages. She ensured Viola and Richard drank, ate, and took their sleeping pills. Weeks passed, yet Mistral continued to visit daily. She ensured they had groceries, attended to household chores, and tried to instill a fragile sense of normalcy by engaging them in conversation. Mistrals continuing presence had comforted her in a way that Richard couldn’t. The grief had been so heavy and all encompassing, it had sucked all oxygen out of their marriage.

As time passed, Mistral encouraged her to start cooking simple meals again. Mistral entertained her with the latest gossip and eventually resumed sharing stories of her bizarre extramarital affairs. Listening to the tales of Mistral’s carefree life offered Viola a moment of escape from her own grief. Gradually, she began to notice the world around her again—the flowers in her garden, the chirping of birds. She even started sharing recipes she found online with Mistral.

Though her grief remained a constant presence, it was accompanied by the emergence of a parallel path where fragments of normal life began to reappear. On this secondary road, fragile experiences of lightness and reserved laughter became possible. Amidst the gathered group of neighbors at the garage sale today, she had even felt a precious moment of joy.

She took another look at the tie and the polo shirt. A new memory struck her. In the weeks leading up to the accident, Mistral would come over and share her escapades as soon as the workers constructing her new patio, left. Mistral had been ecstatic: the men were well-built, sweaty, young, and eager.

Viola gasped as the realization hit her. She stormed out of the garage, screaming, and headed straight for Mistral.

Mistral, taken aback, stood paralyzed. A neighbor stepped between them just in time to prevent Viola from lunging at Mistral.

“Why do you have these?” She yelled at Mistral while waving the memento’s in the air. “You with your sick keepsakes!”

“You!” she turned to Richard, throwing the tie to his feet. “You fucked her!”

She stifled a sob as she held up the yellow polo shirt.

“She was fucking the cement truck driver. That’s why the truck was left unattended. Our son died for a quicky!”

Her husband went pale.

Viola turned to Mistral. “You and your pathetic need for attention! Timothy died because of you!” Viola continued screaming, violently lunging at Mistral.

Someone had called the police. An officer dragged her towards the police car. She struggled against his grip. He shoved her into the back seat of the car where she was left alone, pounding on the window, screaming.

Thoughts kept circling in her mind. Timothy was dead because of Mistral. Mistral fucked her husband. Timothy was dead because of Mistral.

She looked at the group of people standing in the front yard on the cement patio. The BBQ was on, they were talking with the police officers as if this was just another community policing gathering. A thirst for revenge seared through Viola’s body, lighting up her brain and her senses. Her son had suffocated in a thick paste, his body mangled and mutilated, whereas Mistral was standing there, blatantly flirting with police officers.

She glared at Mistral through the searing heat rising from the BBQ grill. Through the shimmering hot air, Mistral’s unscathed body appeared distorted. A cold shiver ran down Viola’s spine as her eyes locked onto the burning flames. Her thoughts began to gather. She hadn’t felt this clearheaded in a long time. Once her plan was fully formed, she exhaled. Satisfied, she finally leaned back.

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“Sparkling water?! No way!” Espen exclaims  “Come on, take a glass of wine? A cocktail maybe?”

Mira smiles at him. “No thanks, I don’t drink”. She turns to the waiter and nods, “A sparkling water, please.”

Espen moves his chair to sit next to her. “I’m sorry, tell me your name again?” The sparkle in his light brown eyes immediately draws her in. They had already been introduced by mutual friends at the bar earlier this evening, he just hadn’t really noticed her until now.

Mira knows him already, of course. Espen stands out in their small community. He is so true to his name, which, someone explained to her once, means ‘Bear’ in some Scandinavian language. The way he naturally takes up space wherever he goes, his voice always just a tad too loud, his roaring laughter lingering just a bit too long. He is even built like a bear—tall and barrel-chested, with short-cropped brown hair, a ruggedly shaved face and dark brown hairs protruding messily from his suntanned underarms.

“So Mira”, he says, a mischievous tone in his voice, “What do you mean you don’t drink? He points at the wine coolers on the table. She feels a tingle in her stomach as she meets his eyes. “Well,” she says, “my friends are drinking, I’m not.”

He leans forward toward her. “Tell me,…. why not?”

She hesitates before responding, “It’s a long story.”

“I love long stories! Come on, what did life throw your way to make you not drink?” His eyes take her in completely, drawing her out. She begins to talk, feeling slightly uncomfortable at first. He listens intently, absorbing every word without interruption, until eventually, she confides all.

“So,…..yeah” she finally rounds off her story.

“Yeah, I understand” he replies, placing a hand gently over hers, squeezing it gently. “I mean, I understand why you stopped drinking. But, it sounds to me like you are not that person anymore right? I mean, you came out stronger. Here you are, a night out with your friends, us meeting, letting our guards down and getting to know each other better.” He raises an eyebrow suggestively. Mira can’t help but burst out laughing.  

“See! I’ve got you laughing already” he continues triumphantly, “Come on, live a little! Have a drink! Just for a trial period, tonight, with me? We can take a walk through the city center, and I’ll show you a few special spots that I don’t share with just anyone. I guarantee you, these places are magical, and the stories that unfolded there? Astonishing! Tomorrow morning, when you wake up, you’ll think back to tonight and still be amazed. I’ll pick you up early, we can relax on my boat—maybe enjoy some mimosas at brunch and take a refreshing dive in the sea? Just good vibes! Life’s too short not to enjoy it with great company. What do you say?”

He grabs two glasses and the bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. “I’m usually more of a beer guy” he says. “But tonight, I’ll drink wine with you.” He pours them both a glass and hands her one.

Mira feels her resolve fading as thoughts keep circling her mind. Isn’t the fact that she feels happy right now, so at ease with Espen and her friends, proof enough that she is ready to drink again? Surely her life is different now than it was in the past? Surely she won’t slip back into gloomy thoughts or feelings—tonight, tomorrow, or next week? Surely she’s developed the discipline to limit her drinking to special events like tonight? Isn’t it time to finally stop holding back? She finally resigns, tired of the struggle.

She grabs the wineglass and inhales the familiar aroma—a blend of light sourness and sharp alcohol.

She takes a first sip. As the wine rests on her tongue, she savors the tartness while the cold liquid chills the inside of her cheeks. She turns to Espen, smiles faintly, and, while holding his gaze, finally swallows.

Her body reacts instantly to the drink, as if welcoming a long-lost friend. Her shoulders relax, her eyes close and she lets out a satisfied breath. The wine soothes her thoughts, quieting them almost instantly and finally putting them to rest. She opens her eyes to find that Espen hasn’t  diverted his eyes from her face. Smiling, he bites his underlip. The stirring in her stomach spreads through her body as she takes another sip and returns his gaze.

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“You didn’t tell him? Right?! You know how he will react!” I detect a tremor in your voice as you confront your friend, Shevanka.

“Don’t worry Gerdine, it’s our girls’ night out! You’re with me, and I certainly don’t need my older brother babysitting me!” Shevanka replies with an indignant scowl.

She is deflecting your question about her brother Rolando, your boyfriend. I can spot a lie when I hear one. You however, choose to still believe her. Just as you still continue to hold on to your initial belief that his vigilance towards his sister—a quality you once saw as a sign he would be good for you—was indicative of love, rather than the controlling behavior it soon revealed itself to be.

Shevanka turns to the restroom mirror, pouts her lips, and adjusts the neckline of her tight sequin dress to expose a bit more of her bursting cleavage. You hadn’t dared wear a dress and opted instead for black jeans and, after some hesitation, a free-flowing blouse that hovers just below your belly button, subtly revealing a hint of skin. You nervously rummage through your small bag for your lipstick but can’t find it.

Glancing at your reflection, you notice the sweat stains under your arms. You sigh in dismay. Shevanka catches your reflection in the mirror and remarks: “Well, at least here nobody really pays attention to how much you’re sweating. We’re all feeling this Caribbean heat!” You like her occasional boldness and indifference to what other people think. She shares these traits with her brother. Although with him, his escalating disregard for limits and lack of self-restraint unsettles me.

You exit the restroom together and head towards the open-air dance floor. As you stroll along the balcony of the renovated plantation house, the venue for tonight’s party, a tropical breeze funnels through, playfully tossing your hair and slightly lifting your blouse. I catch a glimpse of your familiar brown skin, the outline of your lower back shimmering with sweat in the dim lighting.

You both make your way to the dance floor and soon find yourselves in the midst of the crowd. Bodies bump and brush against each other as everyone moves to the Caribbean rhythms and lyrics of local carnival songs, well-known Salsa Antiyana hits, and occasionally, a Latin merengue, salsa or bachata track.

At first your movements are a bit stiff, uneasy. The closer I get to you, the more you start relaxing, gradually allowing yourself to absorb the music and vibrant energy around you. Your face softens, your muscles relax. Every so often, you burst into laughter as one of your dance partners twirls you around. You smile and say hello to familiar faces on the dance floor. The atmosphere is charged with an energizing, upbeat energy. There’s a sense of spontaneity, openness, enthusiasm and joy of living among the party-goers that you wouldn’t typically see during the day or at more formal gatherings. But in this setting, with the band playing everyone’s favorite songs, all the usual reservations and composure, typical of this small island community are set aside.

In these fleeting moments, you seem to forget everything—where you are, who you are—and your inner light radiates in its purest form. These moments are becoming increasingly rare, but I cherish each and every one of them.

I don’t notice Rolando until he is suddenly standing behind you, his nostrils flaring with anger. He grabs your arm and forcefully turns you to face him. His intense anger ensnares you like a lasso around runaway cattle. Involuntarily, I take a few steps back. Fear and embarrassment are evident in your eyes as your gaze flicks between his face and the onlookers. Shevanka murmurs a quick hello to her brother and swiftly retreats to the bar.

I hear your pleading voice, “Please, Rolando, calm down. Let go of my arm.” Then you whisper the few words that sometimes still reach him: “People are watching.” He releases your arm, and casts a wary glance around.

People are watching, their expressions a mix of curiosity and concern. A man steps forward and asks if everything is okay. You muster your most convincing smile and assure him, “Yes, I’m fine, everything is fine.” As you take a step toward Rolando to try and prove your point, he quickly throws his arm around your shoulder, pulling you close.

“Yeah, we’re good, right, mi dushi?” he says with a forced casualness. “I was just worried about where my sweety was. You know how it is man, women don’t always tell you where they’re at.” The man doesn’t seem fully convinced by Rolando’s words, or yours for that matter, but still, he backs off. It’s a scene I’ve witnessed far too often.

Rolando moves his arm from your shoulders to your lower back. He slides his hand under your blouse. Only my trained eye notices the way Rolando tightens his grip around your side, his fingers digging into your body as he steers you away from the party towards the exit. I maintain my distance.

The parking area is simply a large, cleared dirt field—dusty and unpaved. Despite this, there is a semblance of structure, with cars organized into makeshift rows. The bright lights of two lamp posts, each positioned at the far corners of the field and powered by roaring diesel generators, offer visibility and some measure of safety and security to the party-goers and their cars. Rolando has double-parked his car close to the entrance, clearly not intending to stay too long.

Once you reach the car, he grips your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes as he hisses his familiar threats. He pushes you into the vehicle. He calls out to his sister, urging her to hurry as she nervously scurries toward the car.

I scan the entrance and the parking lot. There are people around. They must be sensing that something is not quite right. If they choose to, someone could recognize that this might be more than just an innocent lovers’ quarrel. Someone could choose to acknowledge the situation. Someone could intervene—if they wanted to, if they dared.

I linger behind. I know what awaits us when we get home, and seeing how you nervously rub your hands, I can tell you do too. By now, you have completely forgotten about me. It might be a while before you think of me again. Sometimes, I fear you might forget me completely.

Of course, even if you would forget me, I’d still be around, all be it quiet, dried out and stale, much like a discarded slice of bread. Like all sparks of joy I am inherently linked to my designated individual human. I’ve been with you every moment since the day you were born. When you allow me to, I elicit smiles, laughs, a lightness in your chest and a powerful, revitalizing energy.

Deep down, I know you want me to be around more. But my spark can merely guide you. It is up to you—your mind, your heart and your body—to decide to walk away from Rolando. And maybe even convince Shevanka to leave with you.

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