6:42 AM
Greta Van der Linden wakes to the sound of music. His music.
Thelonious Monk, drifting up through the floorboards from 4B. The notes coil into her dreams, pulling her out of sleep like a slow, insistent hand at the nape of her neck.
She stretches, the silk sheets cold against her bare legs. Outside, the February wind howls down Beekman Place, rattling against the generous windows of her brownstone apartment.
Frederick never wakes this early. Which means—someone else must be there.
She closes her eyes, listens. No voices. No laughter. But that means nothing.
She rolls onto her side, willing herself back into oblivion. She cannot start the day like this.
But the seed has been planted.
—
8:23 AM
In the lobby, they pass one another.
He is stepping out, fastening his coat, that damn smirk already on his lips. "Miss Van der Linden," he murmurs, the mock formality curling around her name like smoke.
She tilts her head. "Frederick."
He does not stop walking, does not turn back. Just disappears out the door and into the city, leaving her standing there, hands tightening around her leather gloves.
Once, he would have kissed her cheek in greeting. Once, he would have brushed a strand of auburn hair from her face, whispering things he never meant.
That was before.
Before the doubts. Before the nights she lay awake listening to him entertaining someone else. Before she convinced herself she could live with the uncertainty.
Before she knew what he truly was.
—
3:17 PM
The tenant meeting is a tedious affair. The building is old, elegant, but crumbling at its edges. The staircase—a grand, sweeping thing of polished oak—has begun to loosen. The railing wobbles under a firm grip.
Mrs. Leland from 2A complains, her voice reedy and anxious. "It’s a hazard. Someone’s going to get hurt."
Frederick, lounging in a chair, exhales cigarette smoke and shrugs. "Then don’t lean so hard."
A chuckle ripples through the room. Not everyone laughs. Greta does not.
She studies him. The carelessness. The indifference. The way he dismisses real concerns because none of this touches him. He is untouchable. Untamed. Unconcerned with the consequences of his actions.
A thought stirs in her mind.
Quiet. Seductive.
What if he wasn’t untouchable?
—
6:42 PM
The envelope. Slipped under her door, like a secret meant to wound.
She lifts it with two fingers, already knowing.
His handwriting. F.
She unfolds the card. Cream-colored. Embossed.
Happy Valentine’s, darling.
No signature.
Just an address. A time. 9:00 PM. The St. Regis.
She presses the card to her lips. Why?
A reconciliation? A confession? A proposal?
Or a final, deliberate cruelty?
She already knows the answer.
—
8:58 PM
She glides through the gilded halls of the St. Regis, past chandeliers dripping with light, past men who stare and women who whisper.
She sees him.
Fredrick.
Whiskey in hand, laughing in that slow, easy way. And beside him—her.
The red lips. The gardenia perfume.
The woman who was never supposed to matter.
The woman who is still here.
Greta does not react. She does not throw the drink she orders. She does not break the delicate glass stem in her hands.
She only watches. Watches Frederick lean close, whisper in the woman’s ear. Watches his hand trace along her wrist, the way it once traced Greta’s.
She leaves before he sees her.
—
10:12 PM
Beekman Place is silent.
Greta reaches her door. Pauses. Turns. Looks up.
A single light burning in 4B.
She steps inside, unbuttons her coat, pours herself a drink.
The card from Frederick flickers in the fire.
The ache in her bones turns to something else.
Resolve.
—
11:47 PM
She descends the stairs, slow, careful. The old wood creaks beneath her feet, the polished banister cool beneath her gloved hand.
She crouches. Works quickly.
A small adjustment. A loosening.
It will not break. Not immediately. But the next person to descend in a rush, unthinking, perhaps a little drunk—they will falter.
She returns to her apartment. Waits.
—
12:06 AM
Laughter. The jangle of keys.
Frederick and his Valentine.
Footsteps on the stairs. A sudden shift in rhythm.
A snap.
A sharp crack of wood.
A sharp, tumbling fall.
A scream.
Then—silence.
—
12:09 AM
Greta Vanderlinden takes a slow sip of whiskey, staring out the window.
Did it happen?
Did she imagine it?
She does not check.
She simply listens to the February wind, howling its approval through the streets of Beekman Place.
© Michael Arturo, 2025
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Welcome to Michael’s Newsletter. Writer of contemporary political/social commentary, parodies, parables, satire. Michael was born and raised in New York City and has a background in theater and film. His plays have been staged in New York, London, Boston, and Los Angeles.
Michael also writes short literary fiction. Below is a link to his first collection.
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