"April showers bring May flowers, at least, that's what my lover used to tell me." I took a sip of water from the paper cup he'd offered me, delighting in the sensation of cold liquid on my parched throat. I resisted the urge to bite down on the waxy rim of the cup, a habit held over from my childhood.

"Your lover?" He leaned forward, a spark of interest in his eyes.

I hid my smile, carefully setting the cup back down on the scratched wooden table top. I could see that my comment had surprised him. 

I fixed my gaze on him, holding his stare. "A lover as illicit as a panty thief, come to rob knickers from the clothesline in the dead of the night."

He cleared his throat and sat back in his chair, his large hands resting on his knees. He sat with the confidence of a man used to getting his way, his legs wide apart and his feet flat on the linoleum floor.

"So...." he glanced down at the documents on the desk in front of him. "Edith. May I call you Edith?"

"You may." I inclined my head gracefully. Mama always told me that a lady never forgets her manners, regardless of the circumstances. 

"Can we start at the beginning?" He picked up his pen.

I shut my eyes for a moment, thinking. The beginning? Which beginning should I choose?

"Edith?" He prompted me softly, his impatience carefully reigned in and reshaped into professionalism.

I opened my eyes. "I shall start at the most recent beginning. I am 90 years old, young man. If I was to start at the very beginning we would be here until Thanksgiving."

"The recent beginning it is." He held his pen poised over the page and looked at me expectantly.

"I moved into the rest home at Maybury Ridge in June last year. It was a hot day if I recall. Too hot for much activity. The kind of day when all you want to do is lay quietly in the shade and sip on Mint Juleps."

"A year ago, then?"

"Yes, I have been at Maybury Ridge for one year. I resisted moving for several years but, unfortunately, my house got a little too much for me to handle." I sighed wistfully, thinking of my big white Georgia mansion with its wide verandahs and beautiful gardens.

"Please continue." He had finished writing and was waiting for me.

"I soon noticed a handsome man among the other residents and I do declare that he noticed me right back." I smiled at the memory. Dear, dear George. "We soon became an item. He would visit me in my room, bringing me little trinkets and gifts. Freshly picked flowers from the rose garden, little boxes of chocolates, tiny bags of candy. He was very sweet on me."

"So George Calder was your lover?"

I held his gaze steadily. "He was my lover in the truest sense of the word."

I swear that young man blushed right to the tips of his ears. He glanced at the man standing behind him and then back at me. "Did anyone else know about your affair?"

I made a little moue of distaste. "Sarah found out soon enough. Busybody that she is. Always wanting to know what was happening and who was involved."

He referred to his notes again. "Sarah Calder?"

"Yes, the one and the same. She found out and she made a terrible fuss." I leaned forward conspiratorily. "And that, officer, is why I had to murder my illicit lover's wife."

He had no interest in me and I had no interest in him. Our paths should never have crossed. They would never have done so if it wasn't for the shared torches of sadness that we both carried.

Our eyes met across a crowded and noisy bar and we both made the same mistake. We mistook the glimmer of sorrow in each other's eyes for the sparkle of desire. We saw our own reflection in the other's gaze and the first step was taken towards a miscalculated and ill-fated rendezvous.

"Hi." He was by my side in an instant, leaning casually against the top of the high table.

"Hi." I smiled back, pushing aside the urgent warnings of my conscious mind. My sadness rushed forward and embraced his, leaving no room for rational thought. He wasn't my type, would never be my type. But I reached for the expression in his eyes with all the passion of a long lost lover.

He bought me a drink. We talked for a while, our eyes locked. Our conversation looped and spun and circled back. He'd lost both his parents in a traumatic and unexpected bus crash two years ago. I'd lost my long-term partner in a traumatic and unexpected love triangle two months ago. Our hearts both knew the devastating pain of loss and, in each other, we recognized a kinship.

I invited him back to my place, quietening the increasingly loud and utterly silent shouts of No! from inside my head.

We shared a bottle of wine, seated awkwardly side-by-side on my uncomfortable sofa. I had to remind myself what his name was. Dave. He looked more like a David. Or perhaps a Peter.

We ran out of things to say. He glanced towards the stairs leading up to my room. I hesitated on the precipice, poised between showing him the door and showing him the bed.

I paused for so long that he prompted me. "Well?" He was already standing, his body angled towards the door but his eyes fixed on mine.

"Ok." The word was so quiet that I wasn't sure if I'd actually said it out loud.

He took the stairs two at a time. I left the lights off. 

It was quick and awful. Without any light, there wasn't even the chance to lock eyes to see what had brought us together in the first place. A mindless, emotionless, empty connection.

He left soon after. I showered, scrubbing at my skin, and bundled the sheets off the bed, hoping to remove all traces of a coupling that should never have happened. 

Just another Dave. And a reminder to myself to look for the future in another's eyes, not for a past that I don't care to revisit.

I have no boundaries, no schedules, and no expectations. I am completely free to make my own choices, walk my own pathway, and dictate my own outcomes. I am gloriously, utterly, alone.

I am isolated and depressed. I have no connections and no intimacy. No one understands my thoughts or wishes. No one understands me. People ebb and flow around me but our souls never link. I am lonely.

I have people who understand me. However, for now, they neither stimulate nor interest me. They are absorbed in themselves. They are not giving me the attention which I crave. I am not alone. I am not lonely, though I may place myself into this category through my own self-absorption. I am merely bored.

“Alex, for Chrissakes, move your elbow. God, you eat like a pig.”

Alex turned to his partner, his face full of pizza. Tiny dregs of pepperoni and cheese lay scattered down his uniform like ghostly remnants of confetti. “What? You wanna slice?”

“Nope, Sally made me a sandwich. I already told you.” Eric pulled out the brown paper bag containing his dinner. He opened the bag and looked at the salad and tuna sandwich glumly for a few minutes, then he glanced at the remaining slice of pizza sitting greasily on Alex’s lap. He suddenly had no appetite at all. He screwed up the brown bag carefully, mindful of any crumbs. He wound down the window to heft the rubbish towards the bin at the side of the car. Missed. Grumbling, Alex opened the door and went to retrieve the bag before picking it up and dropping it into the bin. A light mist was falling and the street lights glowed dimly through the shroud of drizzle. He shivered and turned the collar of his uniform up a little. He glanced towards the building. The doors were firmly closed and the curtains were drawn. 

“Here, throw this out for me, will ya?” Alex was leaning out the car window, the empty pizza box in his hand. 

As Eric got back into the car and pulled the door closed Alex burped and farted simultaneously, loudly and fragrantly. Eric grimaced. Oblivious to his companion’s distaste, Alex took the sheaf of documents from the dashboard and flicked through the papers. He hummed under his breath. Eric watched as Alex's greasy fingers left orange-colored stains on the pages.

“She’s a bit of a looker,” Alex commented. He was staring at the page printed with an image of Krystal Lee, tonight’s assignment. “I wouldn’t mind introducing her to a bit of corruption and debauchery myself.”

“Chrissake Alex, she’s seventeen years old. Get your mind out of your pants. We have a job to do. It has to be done efficiently and effectively. No room for error or diversions. And pass me the air freshener. The car reeks of pizza and stomach contents. It's making me feel ill.” Eric bent his head to peer through the window at the building they were watching. “No sign of any movement in there.”

Alex yawned widely, the action exaggerated. “God it’s boring, all this waiting. Why do we need two of us anyway?” He squirted a few sprays of Nil-Odor towards the dashboard, the droplets hanging in the air for a moment before settling on the faux leather trim.

Eric sighed. He picked up his hat from the back seat and placed it on his head. He checked his reflection in the rear vision mirror. “It's a safety factor. I’ve already explained. If it’s too boring for you, you don’t have to come out again. I can find myself another partner.”

Alex turned the rear vision mirror towards himself to pick at a piece of pepperoni caught between his teeth. "Nah, it’s alright. I can do with the extra dollars.”

Eric glanced at the time and picked up his phone. He scrolled through the list to find the contact and texted a message: “Due to enter building to collect Krystal Lee. Thank you for choosing Eric’s Professional Taxi Services, the secure personal collection and superior safety transport service for your teenage son or daughter.”

“Pass me Krystal’s photo, Alex. I’ll never find her among all those giggling teenagers otherwise. Back in a minute. And put your hat on. This is a professional organization.”

She screwed up her face and quickly swiped left. What were these men thinking? Did they not, at some point, take a look at the photo they were offering up and reconsider their choice? Most of these badly-taken photos would not be out of place as mugshots on America's Most Wanted. 

She went to switch off the app and suddenly stopped, a small smile playing across her face. Now, this was more like it. Ares, 27, Mount Olympus. Hobbies: spear throwing, chariot racing, and boar hunting. Without hesitation, she swiped right. She sighed with relief. It was a match.

Moments later, he messaged her. "Hey, Aphrodite, nice pic. Love to show you my skills as a swordsman. Wanna hook up?"

Aphrodite smiled again. Arrogant, beautiful man. She put the phone down. She wouldn't answer for a moment or two. She didn't want to appear too keen. She lay back on the chaise lounge, lifting her silky blonde hair in her hands and allowing it to fall and spread across the luxurious fabric of the headrest. She stretched her long, lithe legs out in front of her and arched her back sensuously, imagining the rendezvous which was sure to come. 

"Aphrodite."

She turned her head at the sound of her husband's voice. Hephaestus stood hunched over in the doorway, his plain face etched with pain. Slowly, carefully, he made his way across the room, his walking stick tap-tapping on the polished wooden floors. Aphrodite made no move to help him. Curse Zeus for trapping her in this marriage to a man she could never love.

"Aphrodite." Hephaestus stopped in front of her, his eyes bright with adoration despite the pain of his crippled leg. "I thought we could....," he hesitated, summoning his courage, ".... I thought we could order in pizza and have a quiet night together. Just the two of us." 

The hope in his voice pricked at Aphrodite's heart for just a moment. She looked at the man from under her thick, dark lashes, her wide blue eyes holding his just long enough to give him a surge of confidence. Then she turned away and picked up her phone. "I'm sorry. I've made other plans."

Lottie looked down at the pile of letters as the postmaster placed them into her white-gloved hand. She shivered inwardly. She had not expected a response such as this.

"Thank you, Mr. Humphries." She managed a smile, the courtesies instilled into her psyche by her straitlaced and unemotional mother winning through her terror and discomfort.

She turned and walked across the wide distance of the knotted and faded Post Office floorboards towards the door, the letters weighing heavily in her hand. She now carried with her a decision she'd never expected to have to make.

"Lottie!" Her friend Amy, her plain and broad face wreathed in a welcoming smile, stepped back as Lottie placed her small foot on the pockmarked and weather-beaten step of Post Office building. "Oh, look at all your letters!" Her friend's pleasant expression hardened into one of envy and suspicion. "Someone must love you very much."

Lottie looked again at the wad of letters clasped within her gloved fingertips and her heart stopped beating for just a moment. To her, they represented a prison she had no wish to enter. She pushed the fat envelopes into her purse, out of sight but unfortunately not out of mind.

Amy watched Lottie fasten the clasp on her bag, her eyes avid and hungry. "Aren't you going to tell me who they are from?"

Just then, a horse and carriage careered down the rutted dirt road, flinging up clods of dirt and muck in its wake as the driver frantically pulled at the reins and shouted at the sweat-streaked back of the galloping beast. The girls expertly ducked and retreated.

"Well?" Amy was not about to let her query go unanswered.

Lottie sighed. She imagined, just for a moment, that she was someone else, someone with an entirely different life. Finally, she said, "Mother told me that I must write away to the matrimonial agency set up by the church. She said that she and father can no longer support me and that at 23 years of age I should be married. She insisted that I apply to be a bride for the men who have traveled west, the men who left the east coast to seek their fortunes in the goldfields. She told me that there is a severe shortage of women on the new frontier and that many men over there are desperate for a wife. These letters are the replies to my application." Her words sounded hopeless and empty to her ears.

Amy's eyes widened. She leaned forward, her plump rolls creasing around her middle as the seams of her dress struggled to contain them. "You mean that we have a chance for marriage? Despite the lack of men here in the east?"

Lottie pictured the stack of letters in her purse and her heart sunk right down into the confines of her little leather boots. "Yes. We have a chance to be married if we are willing to accept the hand of a man whom we have never met." 

Amy almost bubbled over in excitement, her eyes full of romantic dreams and elevated hopes.

And Lottie kicked her booted toes into the grit, grime, and manure of the street and understood with complete certainty that her future held no hope at all.

His footsteps echoed off the flagstone tiles, the sound hurried and urgent. The flaming torches on the walls flickered as he ran. 

"Thomas!"

He stopped abruptly, as if he'd been shot, and slowly turned. His face was a bloody mask. I shrieked. Upon his cheeks lay his own gouged-out eyeballs.