Amantes Amentes

The clock on the white wall of the ossuary showed a quarter to five. Isidoros was tempted to lock up early. But before he could decide, a middle-aged man pushed open the door. Shaking off the rain from his coat, he approached the counter and placed a small box alongside a photograph.

Isidoros glanced at the photo. Large eyes, a sweet smile, and long black hair. The woman in the picture was beautiful. A warmth spread through his chest, followed by a flush of embarrassment.

He opened the large ledger and found her number—134. Amalia Petropoulou. He whispered her name under his breath, savoring its elegance, a rare quality in his monotonous life. A sharp sound broke his reverie, and he noticed Mr. Petropoulos tapping his fingers impatiently on the counter.

Isidoros's eyes drifted to the man’s wristwatch. It was large, with Roman numerals, and he was certain that the delicate beads in its center were more than just decoration. It was an exceptional timepiece, accurate to the nanosecond. Despite his disdain for ostentatious displays of wealth, he felt a pang of envy.

"Here is the key to the vault," Isidoros said after logging the entry.

"I don’t need it. Can it stay here?" the man asked, a strange noise emanating from his coat.

The man raised a finger, signaling Isidoros to wait, and pulled a large device from his pocket. Isidoros recognized it instantly—it was a new invention being heavily advertised: a mobile phone. Portable, with no need for wires, and outrageously expensive.

As the man whispered into the device, shielding his mouth, he scrutinized him. Tall, with thick brown hair, just a few strands of gray, and a fit physique that even the heavy winter clothes couldn't conceal. Many women, after Amalia's death, would be eager to console him. And he was certain that this man had another woman in his life. Isidoros tasted bitterness, a metallic tang, in his mouth. All that remained of Amalia were a few bones, but even so, she deserved better.

"Are we done?" the man asked impatiently.

Isidoros stood up, taking the box and the photograph in his hands.

"Yes. You’re done," he said, staring into the man's eyes. He noticed the man furrowing his brows, puzzled. The phone rang again, cutting through the tension. Whatever the man was about to say was forgotten as he hurried out, leaving his wife in the hands of a stranger.

Outside, torrential rain pounded the windows. Isidoros placed Amalia on his desk and approached the window. He couldn’t drive, which meant he would have to walk home. Every evening, he watched the weather forecast at a quarter to nine. He didn’t recall rain being mentioned. If it had been, he would have brought his raincoat and umbrella. Now, he was forced to wait until the downpour eased. He sighed heavily. More precious minutes were lost. This would mean preparing dinner late, missing the news, and ultimately going to bed later, risking insomnia from the anxiety of a disrupted routine. His internal clock would be thrown off balance.

As he watched the rain relentlessly batter the glass, a thought crept into his mind. Tonight, he could have Amalia for company. He glanced hesitantly at the box. He wasn’t afraid of being caught. Her husband would never come looking for her. But the idea was insane. He couldn’t steal the bones of a woman, no matter how beautiful he found her, just because the loneliness after Alice’s death had become unbearable. He felt the glands in his throat tighten and swell at the memory of her. Twenty years later, his life had become a monotonous, precise routine—the only reality that kept him from ending it all. No. He would heat up some food and eat dinner in front of the television as he had done every night for years. Alone.

A loud thud startled him. He rushed to his desk. The box had fallen to the floor, split in two. The bones lay scattered. He stood there, staring at them. They appeared unnaturally white in the dim light as if glowing from within. He wondered: was this her way of telling him she wanted to go with him?

He quickly chastised himself for trying to justify such a grotesque act. He knelt, gathering the bones and wrapping them again in the white sheet. Scents filled his nostrils—wine, basil. He found her photograph wedged under the desk.

He was out of breath when he realized the only sound he could hear was a persistent ringing in his ears. He looked outside. The rain had stopped. He checked the time. Six twenty-two. He felt a touch on his hair.

“What...?” he muttered, terrified.

He felt it again, but this time he remained still, moving only his eyes from side to side. It wasn’t his imagination. He was certain. Invisible fingers ran through his hair a third time, and Isidoros knew he wasn’t alone. She was making contact.

He looked at Amalia. She smiled at him from within the black-and-white frame.

The decision came instantly. He gathered the broken box and placed it in a plastic bag from the supply room. He would burn it in the fireplace tonight. He tucked her photograph into the inside pocket of his coat. As he prepared her escape, he felt adrenaline surge through his body. At fifty-six years old, he couldn’t remember ever feeling so excited. So alive.

He stood for a moment in the doorway, his eyes scanning the room. Nothing seemed out of place. With his back to the ossuary, he smiled faintly.

"Tonight, our dinner will be a little late, my dear," he whispered to her.

He would take a different route home tonight, avoiding places where the full moon cast its light. He didn’t want to meet anyone curious on his way because he might be forced to make them wish they had avoided him. He hugged his briefcase tightly. Taking a few steps, Isodoros disappeared into the darkness.