The Housemaid’s Wedding: A Short Story

I locked it. Of course I locked it.

Like any sane person, the first thing I did when I went into the public restroom was lock the door so nobody else could get in. But the lock is considerably less sophisticated than the deadbolt on the door to our apartment. It’s one of those hook-and-eye locks, which looks like it’ll come loose with one good rattle. The knob turns counterclockwise, and I step back, pressing myself against the white tile wall of the bathroom, as whoever is trying to get inside shakes the door.

My purse. It’s on the edge of the sink, and I’ve got my can of Mace inside. If this asshole wants to hurt me, I’m going to put up a hell of a fight.

I grab my purse and rifle around inside. I feel for the reassuring bottle that I keep with me at all times. But to my frustration, I can’t seem to find it. Where is my Mace?

Then I remember. I was talking to a friend in one of my classes last week, and she mentioned she was going out with a new guy she met on some dating app. I got bad vibes when she said he wouldn’t give her his phone number and would only message through the app, but when she insisted on going on the date anyway, I forced her to take my bottle of Mace. Just in case.

She survived the date. (The guy turned out to be a jerk, but not dangerous.) But I told her to keep the Mace, figuring I’d get another bottle. Then I forgot.

Shit. What am I going to do?

Before I can descend into panic, a voice from behind the door calls out: “Hello? Anyone in there?”

It’s a female voice. Definitely not the person on the phone. It’s just a woman who wants to use the ladies’ room.

That man is not on the other side of the door.

“Just a minute!” I call out.

Okay, he was full of shit yet again, at least about being behind the bathroom door. But at the same time, that call was incredibly disturbing. He knew about the blue dress. He knew I was in the bathroom. He is watching me.

He’s here.

I grab my purse and the clothes I had been wearing, and I come out of the bathroom. The woman standing on the other side of the door flashes me an apologetic smile, but I’m too upset to even return it. As much as I don’t want to, I have to tell Enzo what’s going on. He needs to know I am being threatened, and that this is a credible threat. We need to figure out together how to handle it.

When I get back into the dining area, Enzo is still deep in conversation with his friend. But when he sees me, he rises to his feet and straightens his tie. A smile lights his face.

“Millie,” he says in a slightly breathless voice. “You look… you are so beautiful.”

A man has been threatening me all day. He told me he was going to cut my throat. He’s watching me.

I’ve got to tell Enzo what’s going on, but the words die on my lips when his eyes become moist. “You have made me such a happy man,” he manages. “I am so lucky you will be my wife.”

He said he wants to see my blood spill all over my dress.

“I love you so much.” He wraps his arms around me, making me feel safe and loved in a way I haven’t felt in a very, very long time with anyone besides Enzo Accardi. “This is the best day of my life.”

Oh hell.

I can’t tell him right now. I won’t let that asshole destroy our wedding day.

It will be fine. I’ll just keep my eyes peeled, Mace or no Mace.

But as I’m pulling away from Enzo’s embrace, out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of a stout man sitting on the far side of the cafe, nursing a cup of coffee. The man is dressed in an ill-fitting suit and tie, and his head is shaved so that his white, egg-shaped scalp gleams in the overhead light. He is watching me and Enzo, an unreadable expression on his face.

Could that be the man who has been threatening me?

His eyes meet mine for a split second, and then he looks away, suddenly absorbed in something on his phone. He doesn’t look up again.

It’s entirely possible I’m imagining things, but my gut tells me there was recognition in that man’s eyes when he looked at me. And my gut is rarely wrong.