All the houses on Maple Street were lulled into the night’s repose, amalgamating with darkness, which was interrupted only by a small string of lights leading to the very end of the street. It was a small house which inhabited Maple Street number 73, with an equally petite garden of white and dark pink primroses, adorning the entrance to the porch, right after the small pebble covered, granular pavement leading towards the house. Of all the seven windows, only the small one on the right was illuminated, but the thick, heavy curtains of a marine shade refused to reveal its interior to an outsider, save for one nervously twitching silhouette passing by the window, every so often.
Those who managed to infiltrate this lonesome, illuminated interiority however, had no repose in the serenity of the night, as their neighbors did. Ava Jones was sitting on a carved, burgundy colored armchair, a high quality replica of an antique Louis VIII armchair, which she once glanced at in a magazine and had to own. But, since neither she, nor her accountant husband, were exactly where they wanted to be at the social ladder quite yet, she consented to having a mere replica. For now. Ava was resting her long, lean ballerina body, with her right hand feeling her golden bun, which lost the sleek classic look it had at the beginning of the evening. In her left hand, a small glass of whisky was swinging left and right, in circles, with a slight tinkering of ice cubes, already half melted. Her quick, intuitive eyes the color of Irish emeralds were not looking at her husband, who resembled a fruit fly, going in circles across the room, unable to stop himself.
She was looking through other furniture that adorned the room, appearing a true antiquity to the untrained eye, but she knew better. She was looking through the heavy, thick curtains that were drawn all the way together, through paintings on the walls, through the small fireplace, that her husband lit a mere few minutes ago and the soft crackling of fire was already felt, devouring some material of which only a small grey remnant was left, but not for long. Ava was lost in thought. “Yes, it was the right thing to do,” she thought to herself. “Max had been drinking, not much, but still, if we were involved in any way, he’d be found guilty, I’m sure of it. Yes, the right thing to do”
Maximilian, Ava’s husband, was also lost in thought, but he did not share his lovely wife’s outward sense of calm. The four shots of bourbon he already gulped down did not steady his nerves and he continued his panicky walk throughout the room. Neither of his hands was holding another glass of alcohol, so they were free to gently crack the fingers of the opposite hand. It was a subconscious flagellation of a man who had just taken a life. He was a man of weak will and big appetites, and had never known himself as anything else. When he was offered a drink, he accepted it. Tonight, he might have overdone it, but it was a clear night which promised clear roads and perfect visibility. “It’s summer, for god’s sake!” He buried his face in the palm of his left hand, the one that was a few hours ago, maneuvering the steering wheel, while the right one was controlling the clutch. He turned towards the fireplace and the sight of the material which was gazing at him from the ashes, made his heart jump. He rushed towards the poker and stabbed through the burning ashes, still flickering strongly, continuing to pierce the fabric, until it was hanging from the poker. Then he made it hover over the flames, until nothing was left of it but a throbbing memory.
Suddenly, he felt the gentle scent of lilies in the summer, and a hand on which a discrete diamond ring was glistening, reposing on his shoulder. “Darling, it’ll be alright, I” Her smooth, waterfall voice was interrupted by his trembling, barely audible reply. “YOU didn’t do anything, it was me.” “I will stay with you, no matter what,” her hand was squeezing his shoulder soothingly, in a gesture of approval and love. He wanted her hand off of himself, away from him, he didn’t want her intoxicating perfume right now, but he could not bring himself to push her hand away. In a clumsy, shyly boyish manner, he tapped her reposing hand with his and closed his eyes.
