Resentment plays a chaotic melody in Tia’s mind. At 33 years old, the foul tune begins after her lone shift as a bank teller in Gulfport, Mississippi. Over the years, her mother preached the importance of table etiquette to impress a good man, emphasizing how to prepare multiple dishes—whether plucked fresh from the backyard or processed and crammed in cans. Tia bites her bottom lip to shield her emotions: one day, she’ll cook for the right man, ending a miserable drought akin to her repeated failure to attract that high-value gentleman.
Swoosh! Her car nearly skids against the yellow curb. The boring white Honda Electra, purposed to save her cash, sputters along the worn road. She steadies the wheel, her knuckles whitening with the effort. Trees blur past her in brown and green streaks, disappearing into the distance. In Gulfport, the plantations seem to stretch into infinity. The late skies bear heavy clouds, stealing the blue away and leaving behind an ashen gray that suppresses light before it rains. Yet, for now, the rain holds off.
The asphalt changes from smooth to grainy as Tia enters her subdivision. The homes are pale, their paint chipped from floods and hurricanes that have battered the area over the last three decades. For most of these houses, no improvements have been made since then. Porch screens remain torn, flapping in the corners. Grass in certain yards rises to knee-length, barely contained by cracked walkways leading to the front doors. Tia often wonders if people still live in them until she sees several grannies and their cats scurrying out to check the mail. She gulps at the sight. These women were once young, filled with fine goals and dreams, finding solace in the belief they’d one day be happily married in a fortress of a palace.
Tia climbs a hill in the road. Her car levels out before descending. From the crest, she spots her home—white with blue trim around the windowsills. A shadow moves on her porch. Squinting, she makes out a silhouette—a man.
She pulls into the driveway and notices the man sitting on her wooden rocker. He’s a handsome Black man with a dazzling smile, his white teeth beaming even amidst the shadows of the porch. As she steps out of her car, he rises, towering at an astonishing 6’4”, with a groomed, symmetrical beard that complements the thickness of his brows. He stands still, comfortable, as though he’s been sitting there every day, as if that porch were his throne.
Tia steps out, her heart hammering, back pressed against the car. Finally, he moves, holding out a single rose wrapped in plastic.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, finally,” he says, his voice smooth and deliberate, slicing through the mist.
Tia hesitates but steps onto the porch, her shoes slipping slightly on the moist boards. “Do I know you?” Up close, the man is even more striking. An elegant fragrance wafts from him—Twilight Woods by Bath & Body Works. She recognizes it because she wears the discontinued matching fragrance. He’s the man of her dreams, yet she knows such perfection can’t be real.
“Here… my love.” He hands her the rose. “I’ve seen you on certain days, always alone. Looking lovely, but never with a lucky man by your side.”
She blushes, her gaze dropping to the ground. “It’s just me. Been that way for some time now, but I can hold my own.”
“My name is Theo Irvin Anderson.”
Her eyes sparkle. “I’m Tia.”
“Yes, I asked about you already.” His grin widens. “Funny, isn’t it, how the initials of my name spell yours?”
He lets out a wicked laugh that reverberates from his chest. His persistence sends a shiver down her spine, an eerie feeling creeping in like silence before a battle.
“So, Theo,” she asks cautiously, “why are you really here?”
“For no reason other than to enjoy your company and get to know you.”
The rain begins suddenly, clattering against the pavement like hollow-point bullets. Tia turns, her hand reaching for the door lock. It’s already unlocked—a common occurrence she ought to break, as it happens when her hands are full and she’s distracted on the phone.
“It’s pouring,” Tia says. “Where’s your ride?”
“I needed some exercise earlier,” he replies. “My hike here helped me catch up on my steps.”
As the rain pours harder, unease settles in Tia’s chest. She clutches the rose tighter, willing herself to believe his honesty.
Theo pulls a business card from his pocket. “I own a construction company, in case you need renovations. The second number is my personal line. Call me if you’re interested in coffee and bagels at Ronny’s.”
“O…kay, thanks. I like bagels.” She smiles, relieved. “I’ll call to check if you made it home safely.”
She retreats inside and secures the chain latch to the door behind her, then proceeds to inspect her house insuring her items aren’t tampered with or stolen.
She starts with the living room that looks exactly as she left it—tidy but worn. The beige couch sits unblemished, and the glass coffee table is clear except for a small stack of mail. The LED TV remains mounted on the wall, its console beneath still lined with her knick-knacks.
In the kitchen, the counters are waxed spotless, the air fryer unused, and the fridge hums quietly with its contents undisturbed.
Her bedroom is in order, the bed neatly made with its faded quilt. The vanity is polished, the bottles of perfume and jewelry neatly sorted. The closet reveals her shoes stacked and nightgowns draped on their respective hanger.
Satisfied, Tia peeks through the peephole. Theo is gone.
Forty minutes tick by, and she calls his number, salivating for her potential mate. “Hey, this is Tia. Just checking to see if you made it home safely.”
Heavy breathing fills the line, mixed with faint wind and movement.
“Thanks for checking,” he says, his voice strained. “I’m not home yet.”
Her stomach tightens. “Theo? Are you okay?” The line goes dead as the lights wane and cut out.
Her pulse pounds as unease grips her. She listens closely for any sound stirring up outside. A faint clanging noise draws her attention, coming from the back of the house.
In her bedroom, the noise amplifies near the windows. Clank! Clank! Sounds like someone’s prying loose the burglary bars.
She keeps the blinds closed, then crawls into the closet in the guest room, dialing 9-1-1. Her phone shows no signal. Not a single bar.
She skins her knees on the tight carpet threads, crawling into the kitchen where she rummages through a drawer, grabbing a knife.
The pounding shifts to the front door, thrashing louder. The hinges tremble under the assault.
Tia steadies herself in the living room, grasping the knife tightly. Her chest tightens as the noise grows deafening. The door cracks, splintering apart with a thunderous crash, spewing wood flakes everywhere. Her vision blurs. She collapses, clutching her chest as her heart spasm out. She tumbles next to the rose Theo had given her. Her fingers brush against the vines as darkness claims her.
The next morning, Theo arrives in his black Mercedes, a bouquet of fresh orchids cratered in his hand. His white steel-toe shoes tap softly against the porch. He approaches the door, which is, intact and unscathed. He knocks once, then again, waiting for a response that never comes. Dialing her number, he hears the muffled chime of her phone from within. He sighs, setting the orchids on the doorstep, his expression a mix of disappointment and quiet resignation, before he treks back to his car.
Inside, the silence is profound, broken only by the low hum of the generator. The orchids outside sway in the morning breeze, a solemn and unanswered farewell— to a woman whose mind turns a fleeting moment of hope into her final nightmare.
