Laurence Martin's Women

By Maris Tiller

 

With apprehension and an unhappy heart, Cynthia Cary knocked on the door of apartment 3C. It was already a terrible inconvenience to have to do so, to take time out of her day to do what the mailman ought to have already done, but the added awkwardness of meeting, for the first time, her neighbor of two years, was too much for her nerves.

The man’s apartment was sandwiched between hers and another unknown neighbor, both anonymous and strange to her. No one came to the door at first, so she knocked again. She heard light, hurried footsteps, then the door swung open.

A tall, lanky man of about thirty years old appeared and, on seeing who was at his door, looked just as nervous as she felt. He wore thick, black, rectangular glasses that made his eyes look as if they were popping out in shock, yet there was a kind of handsomeness to him.

It was the type you would not see in a romantic hero, but secretly admire in a side character; he was mildly noticeable. Cynthia pictured him, plastered on a big cinema screen, and her body relaxed a little.

He spoke in a high, squeaky tone. “Yes?”

Cynthia smiled to look amiable, trying to imitate how a well-intentioned neighbor might look. She wanted to create an easy atmosphere in the hope that it would assuage her nervousness along with his. He flashed a smile back at her that then fell into a grimace.

“Are you Laurence Martin?” she asked.

“Yes, that’s me,” he said. He was clutching the door with his left hand and twisting his shirt buttons with the right.

Cynthia handed him the stack of envelopes she had brought, wrinkled from her hard grip. “I believe our mail got switched around.”

He took the mail, looked at them, then back at Cynthia. A laugh erupted from him like a burst water pipe.

“Why, I wondered where these were!” he cried, “Thank you.”

He moved to retreat back into his apartment. Cynthia jerked her arm out and brushed his hand, stopping him.

“Did you,” she asked, “by any chance, get my mail?”

Laurence Martin froze; his face went blank, as if for a moment he ceased to be a person with a conscious mind. He was silent for a while, staring at Cynthia like she had crossed a social line. The awkwardness made Cynthia wish she had said nothing and gone back home, never mind her mother’s letter and whatever else was supposed to be delivered to her.

“I might have,” he said, his words thick and heavy like he was considering the meaning of each one, “Please, come in.”

She followed him inside. Apartment 3C looked much like her 3B, structurally. It was one room and, on entering, you could see everything the inhabitant owned. Cynthia took one look around and could see the bedroom, the kitchen, the living room, everything. It was a slight comfort to Cynthia, to see everything look so familiar.

The only marked difference in any of the dwellings was always the tenant’s personal sense of style.

Laurence Martin’s personal sense of style, it seemed, was overwhelming his walls with various painted portraits of women. None showed any part of the subject below the torso. They took up space on every wall: above and around the fireplace, over his bed, in the tiny wall spaces in the kitchen. No painting looked the same, yet Cynthia felt they all had similar ideas baked into their construction.

Cynthia asked, “Are you a great lover of art, Mr. Martin?”

Laurence Martin had disappeared over to his tiny open bedroom and had begun rifling through his desk. He called back, “Not really.”

“Oh,” Cynthia said, “I just thought--”

“If I got anything of yours, it’ll be in these drawers,” he said.

Cynthia struggled to find something to say. She kept looking at the paintings, finding something new and strange in their details. A brown-haired woman, painted from her breasts up, seemed to be looking sideways at her.

She said, “I’m sorry to inconvenience you.”

Laurence Martin emerged from his bedroom, hand on his chest like he was deeply offended and scandalized. To Cynthia it seemed exaggerated, like an untalented actor using large facial expressions and movements to evoke emotional realism.

“It’s no inconvenience,” he said, “Matter of fact, I’ve been wanting to meet you for a long time.”

He went back to his search. Cynthia stood still, stunned by his sudden overcoming of his shyness.

“Me?” she said, “I’m flattered, Mr. Martin but--”

“Please,” he said from the drawers, “call me Laurence.”

“Oh, ok,” Cynthia said, feeling awkwardly intimate, “Laurence.”

“It is my belief,” he continued, “that one should get to know one’s neighbors.”

“Oh,” Cynthia said, “of course. Me too.”

Without him noticing, Cynthia moved a little closer to where he was searching. He was flipping through a large stack of envelopes laying in the open drawer. He did it rather clumsily; many of the flaps kept rising up, already unsealed.

“Ah ha!” he cried out, producing three items, “Here we are: Cynthia Cary.”

He handed them to her, and Cynthia looked down, puzzled.

“Mr.-- I mean, Laurence,” she said, “I never gave you, my name.”

He grinned and blushed like a shy child. “Well, I’ve seen you around. You know, with your friends and all.”

“Oh,” Cynthia said, nodding to herself, “Yeah, I guess you would have.”

“We’ve been neighbors for two years, you know.”

“Yeah, we have.”

“People who live in such close proximity,” Laurence said, “are bound to know some things about each other.”

Cynthia gave a weak smile. “I’m sorry, Laurence,” she said, “but I don’t know anything about you.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he said, mimicking her smile, “I don’t go out much.”

“Oh,” Cynthia said, “I see.”

“I mostly keep to myself,” he said, “here in my apartment.”

“I see,” Cynthia repeated. She couldn’t think of any other words to say in response. Her tongue felt heavy and awkward, like it didn’t belong in her mouth.

“Hopefully everything you’re missing is there,” Laurence said, gesturing towards the mail.

“I’m sure it is,” Cynthia said, “Please, don’t worry about it. It was an honest mistake.”

“Well, I’d just hate it if you lost something important and it was all my fault,” Laurence said, his voice soft and earnest.

“No, no, not your fault,” Cynthia assured him, “It was the mailman who got us mixed up.”

His eyes widened in surprise, as if he had never thought about this before.

“Why,” he said, “I guess you’re right. Maybe he’s new.”

“Maybe,” Cynthia said, “Well, anyway I should go.”

Laurence looked disappointed. “Already?”

“Yeah, lots of chores and stuff to do,” she said, moving towards the door, “But I’m really glad to have met you.”

“Well don’t be a stranger now that you have,” Laurence said, grinning.

Cynthia reached the door, passed the threshold, and turned. His demeanor was stiff and pleasant; once again Cynthia felt like an audience member of an over-acted play.

“It was nice to meet you, Laurence.”

Laurence Martin took her hand and kissed her knuckles. She snatched her hand away and put it behind her back. His smile didn’t waver.

He said, “Please come by again. I’m very much interested in the kind of woman who still writes letters nowadays.”

Then, without another word, he ducked back into apartment 3C and slammed the door. Cynthia stood in the silent hallway; Laurence Martin became another unknown resident of the building in seconds. Frozen to her spot, she looked down at her envelopes.

It was the missing letter from her mother, her credit card bill, and a piece of junk mail from some half-hearted scammer. Cynthia saw that every front flap was slightly loose and wet, as if they had been opened and hastily resealed with weak saliva.

 

 

Maris Tiller from Virginia, US is a fiction writer. She graduated from the University of Mary Washington with a B.A. in Creative Writing. Her work has been featured in The Aubade (Poem - “Stranger”) and Haunted Portal Magazine (Short Story, “Makes You Feel Like a Bug”). She has work forthcoming in Flash Phantoms and Gargoyle. She is currently enrolled in the M.F.A. program for Fiction at George Mason University. and is primarily a writer of short fiction.