MEMOIR OF LOVE

MARIANNE HINTON SURVEYED the mess as she swung open the attic door.

It had to have been at least a year since she had last been here, and she was astounded as to how much crap she had accumulated in that time. As she ascended the sliding ladder to her own wonderland of junk, she wondered where she was going to start. It had to be emptied to make room for her sister’s storage boxes. Sophie had finally walked out on that lousy bastard she had been living with, and Marianne had offered to let her stay with her until she found her own apartment. It was going to be good, she thought. Sophie had had enough bullshit to last a lifetime, and was in need of some fun.

Marianne started moving boxes around, looking inside to ascertain their contents, and sorting them into piles according to the rooms they would be best served by. She grabbed the last box, revealing a dust-covered, well-work coat. A coat with history. A coat with a past she had tried so hard to forget. It had been an early gift from the man who, she had believed, would have been her husband. Phil Hanton had been a jackpot of admirable character traits, a rare commodity in those days. His dad death at the hands of a mugger had torn her life apart, and it had taken ten years to come to terms with losing him. She dusted off the jacket and sifted through the pockets, finding old household bills, a keychain, a small box, and a crumpled wad of folded paper. She sat in the light from the small attic porthole window, unfolding it. Her breath clogged in her throat as she struggled to read without breaking down. It was from Phil, dated two days before his demise :

Dear Marianne,

It has been better than two years since you first won my heart. After all this time, you still rock my world. I know that you truly don’t believe me when I say I want to grow old with you, so I put a little ‘something’ in this box to

convince you once and for all. Marry me, Marianne. I love you.’ PHIL

Tears cascaded freely down her face, a mixture of pain and joy, as she reached for the box. Inside it lay a large jewellery box. With trepidation she opened it.

A 18-carat pure gold ring gleamed in the remainder of the light.

She was undone, as her wracking sobs ricocheted off the now cavernous attic walls.

THE END