The Hollowness of Love

It was a rainy evening in Knightsbridge, London. Flashlights were repeatedly reflected on the cobbled street. Umbrellas were facing the sky, men and women were strolling down the street.

The concert was about to begin when he left his house. He was tall. Actually, when I looked at him, he was huge. He was wearing a black cotton coat tonight. Mrs. Evans, his wife, was waiting in the car.

“What took you so long, Leonard?” asked Mrs. Evans. Obviously, she was irritated.

“It’s okay, dear, we’re running late.”

If I didn’t know any better, I would say this wasn’t a way of responding, but who am I to criticize them.

The rest of the evening remained silent, except for the sound of subtle ticking of raindrops on old windows. The house was empty.

It was the thumping sound of clock chimes which made me realize it was midnight. It was still raining. From a distance, I heard a man and a woman coming near the house. They were arguing. I couldn’t understand what it was about, but they made sure it was over when they entered the house. The sound of a key entering the door was the first sound in hours that entered the hallway.

“Be quiet Leonard! You’ll wake her up.”, whispered Mrs. Evans.

She hung her grey tunic on the rack near the staircase. Drops were falling onto the marble plates. She hurried up but slipped. Luckily, Mr. Evans could grab her hand on time and said: “Of course I’ll be quiet, my love.”

They looked into each other’s eyes and for a moment there was a glimpse of what was once called love.

They went to bed without saying a word. The blurry moonlight was shining through the curtains onto the white carpet. Mr. Evans, who was still awake, was thinking. About his miserable and totally ordinary life? About his wife, who was absorbed by her pathetic and miserable career and greediness for money?

Maybe both. One thing’s for sure. It was still raining. I like to analyse people walking up and down. They tell so many stories. Every single one of them is trying so hard to make their lives less useless. I pity them.

Suddenly, it stopped raining and, I saw the sun rising in the east. You could see the sun’s rays crossing the streets and damp pavements. I felt her warmth coming over me. It felt nice. Until…

“There isn’t any bread left, Caroline; and the peach marmalade is also empty. Can you go to the supermarket to get some, if you have time, dear?”, I heard yelling out of the kitchen. I saw Mr. Evans leaning over the kitchen island with a cup of Earl Grey in his hand. ‘The best dad’ was written on it. His daughter Clara made it when she was seven. Leonard did everything what was expected of him. So every morning he drank his tea out of the same white cup.

Mrs. Evans came down the stairway, already dressed and ready to go to work. She didn’t even look at him as she pulled open the door of the refrigerator, taking some milk to put into her coffee.

“This is the day, Leonard!”, said Mrs. Evans, exhaling heavily. She held a file and smashed it onto the table. “My plea is solid and unbreakable! I’m going to destroy this man who calls himself a fucking lawyer and throw his client back in jail, where he belongs!”

Mr. Evans, who showed absolutely no interest, was still looking through the window, sipping his tea.

“I’m glad you’re happy, my love! Can you… “ (…)

“LEONARD, are you actually listening to me?”, she interrupted. “I’m on the edge of a breakthrough, and you are complaining about your stupid marmalade!”

Leonard was actually surprised she even listened to him anyway. In the corner of his eye, he saw Clara coming down the huge marble stairway. “Everything alright here?”, she asked. Mrs. Evans walked to her and said: “Oh, my little girl. Everything is fine here. Your dad and I were just talking about my breakthrough in court. Mom is going to make a lot of money today, dear! Your dad was just asking if we need anything from the supermarket. I think he needs strawberry marmalade. Do you want anything?” She smiled as if her cheeks could split open at any moment.

“Mom, please, I’m not your little child any more. I’m 18 now, and I’m sick of being treated as a little child.”, Clara screamed out to her mother.

Clara went to the kitchen and sat next to her father, who was taking another cup of tea. Mrs. Evans joined them and there it was again, the same awkward silence.

They went about their business. Actually, nothing really exciting was said or done, nor was their day. I don’t quite understand them, I think. Mrs. Evans laughed with her own jokes, and Mr. Evans stared at the window. Clara was chatting on her phone to friends. She was probably complaining about her parents. I think there is a boy in school she really fancies.

Anyway, the day went on and the evening fell.

“Five more minutes, dad!”, screamed Clara. Her dad stood near me, looking at the top floor. “Food is getting cold, Clara.”, she heard him yelling.

At that moment, Mrs. Evans came home from court. Her grey tunic was drenched. Even more than the night before, drops were plunging on the staircase, leaving a beautiful blue circle.

“When are we getting diner, Leonard?” said Mrs. Evans.

“Everything is already served, but your daughter won’t come down.”

“Hmm, okay then.” said Mrs. Evans.

In the middle of the room there was a long wooden table. It looked very old. The table was set with two candlesticks on a blood-red tablecloth. Mr. Evans liked red.

The silver cutlery was what Mrs. Evans was most proud of. She got it as a present from a rich lawyer seven years ago. Up until this day, she still talks about him all the time. She just “loves his energy, his hmm how would I call it, his drive”. Even I know this line by heart.

They sat opposite each other, each at the head of the table. Mr. Evans looked at her through the orange-red flames, as he cut the hot meat on his plate. Her haircut was still intact, he noticed. Apart from ageing, she still had the same charming and furious sparkle in her eyes. After all those years, he still adored her. She was still the love of his life. She opened her rose-red lips and tore the meat apart. A stain of transparent fat ran over her cheek, as she

“What?” Mrs. Evans looked jaded.

“Oh nothing, my love. I was just wondering how your day was.”

“My day? It went quite well, I suppose. My case has been postponed.” She answered in a very plain but gentle way.

The conversation went on and a few minutes later Clara came down. A sudden flash blinded the three for a second. The wind whiffled against the windows, as if nails were scratching against a blackboard.

“Oh honey, you should listen to your father now. He has the most incredible news to tell us tonight, isn’t it Leonard.”

“I’ve quit my job, and then I bribed my boss for almost 10.000 pounds.”

“Ex- excuse me? Do I understand this correctly? Thank you for making sure I’m the only one here who works, for making me the only breadwinner in the family. I have to put up with a lazy husband who is in a some sort of midlife crisis? You’re hearing this, Clara? Your dad just lost his job”, she said in a desperate and laughable way, “but I will take care of you honey, I assure you.“

“It’s not that I lost it, like phoef it’s gone. I JUST QUIT!”

“Oh well, in that case, well done! I’m proud of you, Leonard. Go sit in your chair and I will take care of you until the day you die. Actually, I have the perfect job for you”, she said ironically. “You should start a social group for middle-aged men who hate their women, you narcissist.

“I’m done”, Mr. Evans said as he stood up and tossed away his chair. “I’m done with this. The only thing I do is trying to make this work. YOU are the narcissist in this room!”

He took his plate, threw his vegetables in the bin and placed it carefully in the sink, as he looked with rigid eyes into hers. He didn’t say anything. Mrs. Evans was still straight in her chair.

“The self-absorbed ness is just unbreakable. Are you really this cold, Caroline?

She was determined not to let any emotion get a hold of her. “A woman needs to be strong at any time”, she had once read years ago in ‘The Empowered Woman’. They say the eyes are the reflection of the soul. The reflection of emptiness. Frankly, I don’t blame her. I think her daughter is also empty, as is her boss. Even her lover or whatever this man is, who gave her the silver cutlery, is empty. They never really understood the joy and urge for love and kindness. Sadly, her daughter will never learn.

Mr. Evans, disappointed by what he saw, walked towards me. He walked gently on my marble steps. His red shoe soles stroke me. I represent the space between two floors, the emptiness between old and new beginnings. At this point, people are weak and vulnerable.

Suddenly he slipped and fell on my marble steps. I think I crushed his head. I would like to tell the reaction of his wife and child, but the only thing I could see were his eyes. His blue eyes. It was beautiful how he lay there. A red stream appeared, colouring my marble steps. His favourite colour. I could see the reflection of his red lips. Again there was a white flash.

This is the day Leonard F. Evans died. I’ve known him since he was a little child. He used to play with me. He was a loving man. I’ll miss him, and I’m sure, at some point, his wife and daughter will too.

Death divides us. Life flashes in front of you when time comes. An ocean of time. For Leonard, life was watching people’s smiles, and the warm touch of his grandmother’s hands, and Caroline. Oh beautiful Caroline, and his only daughter Clara. She was his shining star.

How hollow life can be.