AT THE HAUNTED END OF THE DAY

Watching the escort take his seat down below at the table she'd reserved for them both she wondered if she would even join him. Sophia had been in a strange, reflective mood all afternoon and had quite gone off the idea of talking to yet another stranger. Once she'd proudly quipped in her best impression of Dorothy Parker that"One should never talk to the same person twice" but lately she had found the repetition of self-exposition exhausting. What had seemed at first a quaint personal philosophy had now become a chore, yet one she had become routinely habituated to.

She'd already sent several instructions to the maitre'd explaining that he was to inform the gentleman that she would be a little late but that he must help himself to whatever food and drink he might like.

Observing his body language from a distance, she found it fascinating and somewhat arousing to know that he was expecting her to arrive and until she did he was essentially a pawn at the mercy of her waiting game. Melancholy had increasingly become like a drug for Sophia who enjoyed in her own strange way the feeling of suspended time before committing to a shared moment with someone she'd never met.

After he'd ordered a drink and seemed to enjoy watching the burnished sunset, Sophia decided to play some music in her room to accompany the perfect image of his solitude.

She'd always loved "At The Haunted End Of The Day" by William Walton which she remembered her father playing in his study where he would often sit in the evenings, smoking a cigar and nursing a brandy whilst playing opera sets and decompressing from his work as a barrister in the courtooms of London. The languid Mediterranean atmosphere of the music intrigued her as she would walk slowly past his door before heading to bed.

As she played the aria and continued to watch the stranger from her hotel balcony, she felt an overwhelming sense of sadness. What was this feeling that had seized her so completely, like an unexpected turn in the weather? It felt like as long as she didn't go to him, he would remain forever perfect and a complete mystery to her. This elusive state of not quite existing appealed to her greatly like she was on the brink of stepping into a new life but not quite courageous enough to do so.

It was erotic and sad in equal measure but made her feel alive somehow. Would it always be like this for her now? As if she was on the brink.

She turned her back on the sunset and closed the glass doors of her balcony window tight shut.

"Would you like more wine, sir?"

The smartly dressed gentleman shook his head.

"I don't think my companion is joining me. It's been an hour."

The maitre'd looked back toward the balcony where he noticed Madam Sophia had been standing earlier. He had a bad feeling in his gut but tried not to convey his concern to the gentleman who stood up from his table.

"Would you like me to convey any message to Madam?"

The tall, dark haired man considered the maitre'd's suggestion.

"Tell her, time and tide wait for no man."

"What does that mean?"

Tucking several folded euros into the maitre'd's shirt pocket as way of a tip, he explained -

"It means you shouldn't hesitate when an opportunity presents itself. Buona serata."

And with that, the gentleman turned and headed back to where his car was parked close to the hotel.

As he revved the engine of his red, vintage Iso Grifo and drove away, the maitre'd suddenly felt a sense of dread in his heart.

It wasn't the first time he knew what would come next.