Beyond Grace [ON INDEFINITE HOLD]

Beyond Grace: 7

​You have 11 missed calls.

Cash swore through clenched teeth, irately snapping the playback button down. If it was the station...

​Keira's bubbly voice permeated through the speakers. Whenever she left voicemail, the message-box would be inundated with irrelevant babble. Nonsense was good, however; most of the time she shouted out superfluous words more random than a witches brew.

​This time, howbeit, guilt guided gelid fingertips to the 'clear all' button. Keira knew a response was as likely as snow on a sultry summer’s day. Nevertheless, there was always a 'call me' chagrin lingering on the end of each message.

He sighed. Paused. Circumspect fingers danced on and off the plastic button.

​All messages have been deleted.

Without hesitation the smooth algid phone was already in hand, arduously familiar numbers being punched in like old habits lost. A bleak dial tone greeted his ears. The line cut, followed by Keira's artificially cheery recording to 'leave a message after the beep'.

Knowing it would be futile; Cash determinedly redialled the all too memorable phone number. Again – no answer. Completely uncharacteristic of Keira, who would usually answer within seconds with the idiosyncratic reply of 'here'. Mockingly, Cash would always reply with a vivacious dog bark. Used to, that is...

Cash scowled and went to make a coffee. The rich, amiable scent of the double shot espresso quickly saturated the room, seeping into every corner. Contemplative, he took a long draught from the mismatched mug.

From the soft drape of the prosaic white curtains to the thin gilded gold frame of the mirrors, the room seemed all too womanly. Change was imperative; the ashen grey of the walls no longer reflective of his mood, the femininity of the interior designer moreover an insult to Melody's memory. Yet, any attempts at renovating would lead to an imminent tragedy.

A sharp knock echoed on the door. Cash grimaced; the lack of response from Keira synchronised with the intense reconciliation with Ma had branded the day as loitering around the house. Being surrounded by women was hard to survive on a regular basis. Nevertheless, he trudged over, greeting the unfamiliar person at the door with an impassive grunt.

“Mate!” the guy hollered appreciatively, welcoming himself in.

Cash squinted — Jose? The long mousy hair had been brutally hacked short, a small stubble developing on a once clean-shaven chin; yet, it was the same, good ole’ bastard from before that blatantly barged through the doorway and into the living room.

They met many years ago, right after he moved in to the last house, with Melody. Unuttered but there, Jose brought about staple man-time – the laidback conversations when Melody was out. Hours would pass with Jose bringing in a plethora of laughably bad imported Chinese pornos.

He could still remember the charismatic introduction; a brief knock on the door, so similar to this one... a greeting with the now-customary cheer of ‘mate’, before asking for a ladder. Or a hammer. “The Missus” had changed the locks again, he had sincerely explained.

Jose’s relationship with Russian immigrant, Anoushka Makarova, was a far cry from a passive walk in the park. Hurricane on the rise – three divorces, countless break-ups, at least four restraining orders each and more reconciliations than possible to count, marked turbulent love-hate warfare. When they weren’t fighting, they were making love; when they weren’t making love, they were fighting. Needless to say, the bittersweet world was a facet of a faveolate reality – almost as if life was on repeat.