Another Summer Day

It was another summer day in August. Max Fantino lay on a starched double bed, in a dark room with blinds shut to keep out the sweltering heat. A fan hanging from the ceiling circled incessantly as Max listened to the lazy drone of its engine and the odd irregular click it made randomly on one of its lazy turns. He was lying only in his underpants, his belly protruding from the ample lunch he had just consumed. This is siesta, the time to sleep off the heat in a cool shady environment; the time to digest one's meal and a time to make love - given that one had a partner to love, of course.

And he didn’t have a partner not any more. 

Max breathed in deeply. He still could not understand why Margherita had left him, so abruptly. Had it been the drink? Had it been the wrong word at the wrong time? Had it been his insensitivity, he wondered, eyes gazing at the fan rotating. Because she had told him she had found someone else and she wanted to make a clean break, and he couldn't understand her words, that night in the middle of the night, with the light rain outside and the warm fire burning in the hearth. She had said words like I know this may hurt you, but it's best to be honest with ourselves. She said she was feeling an emptiness, that she had been feeling this void for too long now and that he had done nothing to recognise it and had just let it go like a fish you release after unhooking the hook and casting it back into the swells of the sea. He remembered the feeling of hopelessness and disbelief although he had never turned a blind eye, he had always been aware of her innate sadness, loneliness and, ultimately, apathy. They had talked well into the night and the bottle of wine slowly but surely diminished and vanished and they had slept in different beds that night. And he had laid on the bed in the guest room and she had laid on the pull out sofa bed in the sitting room, but neither had slept in their bedroom, where they had made love so many times. And the rain gently fell outside, and he heard the drops dripping off the eaves of the roof and he had tried to count them, one by one, until he lost count and drifted into a restless sleep.

And when he awoke in the morning, she was nowhere to be seen. The flat was empty, and he knew then she was true to her word, she had left him.

The fan on the ceiling continued its unbroken whirl. The sun outside had begun to shake off its intense light as the afternoon languidly turned into the evening.

He rose from the bed and stretched. He showered, allowing the warm water to soothe his body and to waken his consciousness and to admit the reality he had to summon up the courage to face. He dressed his nakedness in a pair of white cotton jeans, a black belt and a blue linen shirt. He slicked his brown hair back, but did not think to shave away the stubble that had grown on his cheeks over the past two days. The mirror over the sink, reflected his dull blue expressionless eyes, and he peered into those eyes now and recalled the untidiness of his revenge. Because he had followed Margherita day after day, like a pervert or like a stalker and he had seen her with the man who had replaced him in her heart. The surge of jealousy was rampant throughout his body and played havoc in his consciousness. She had become an obsession and he could not bring himself to accept rejection, and so he continued to follow her until the night of the murder. 

He closed his eyes, and sat down on the toilet. The memory was a video that played itself over and over again. He had been sitting in the corner of the bar where they were sitting, face to face, sipping wine. At a distance, he could see but not hear their intimate conversations. Every now and again, Margherita would laugh loudly, and the man, he did not know the name of the man, echoed her laughter, pleased to see she was evidently amused at his sense of humour. He observed how their foreheads touched, close to a flickering yellow candle light and how their eyes met, the simultaneous smile and the conspiracy that seemed to emanate from their bodies; a conspiracy that gnawed his insides, and fermented his silent rage.