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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