A fan fiction story by Melpomene based on the characters and backstory of "Roswell" and composed without permission. No copyright infringement is intended and no monies have been earned.
She drug the mop across the grungy tiled floor, watching the trail of grimy suds it left in its wake. Midnight at the diner held no intrigue, just a handful of people with sore feet and even sorer heads.
Oranges and lemons say the bells of Old Clemmons…
Twirling the mop in a lazy arc, she let her eyes slowly lose focus… the speckled linoleum and sudsy water blurring into a mass of green-gray swirls. Her mind wasn’t cooperating with her work ethic, she couldn’t concentrate on her task long enough to complete it and for some reason that very fact didn’t seem to disturb her.
…You owe me three farthings say the bells of Saint Martin…
Michael would step out of the kitchen at any moment to watch her listless movements, his eyes filled with unvoiced concern. He would try to tell her it would be better once she went home and got some rest, got off her feet for a minute. He would try to tell her that life would go on even when she wasn’t sure she wanted it to.
…When will you pay me say the bells of Old Bailey…
The mop continued to swirl across the tiles, never stopping, never moving beyond the nine square tile patch of floor where she stood.
Backward, forward and around; backward, forward and around. Never stopping, never hurrying, simply moving backward, forward and around.
…When I grow rich say the bells of Shore Ditch…
The old nursery rhyme spun around her thoughts in the same manner that the mop was trailing across the floor, never ending and without purpose. Her mother’s singsong voice filled her head momentarily, slowly mopping and singing the rhyme.
Any minute Michael would walk out of the kitchen… any minute now.
…When will that be say the bells of Stepney…
She slid the mop back toward her feet again, watching a wet stain of dirty water darken the toe of one of the brown suede shoes she wore. Michael never noticed her shoes; he had once said that her face was too distracting for him to see anything beyond it. He could be romantic when he put his mind to it, when it mattered enough to him to try.
…I do not know say the great bells of Rowe…
Closing time at the Crashdown. She could hear the dishes in the utility sink in the kitchen. She could hear the hiss of the high power spray she knew was directed at those dishes. She could hear the faint strains of music that drifted through the order window.
He’d walk through that doorway any minute now.
…Here comes a copper to put you to bed…
Michael’s face morphed into her mind’s eye, his smile tugging gently at her heart while she waved goodbye. He’d waved one last time, uncharacteristically blowing her one last kiss farewell.
He’d walk right out of the kitchen onto her wet floor, disregarding the work she’d done and leaving a trail of size twelves on the glisteningly wet tiles.
She’d seen it on the news first, before Max had a chance to call her. Seen the blonde reporter standing in the desert near the crumbling and charred wreck that had once been a jet liner, heard the words “no survivors” without actually comprehending what she was seeing.
…Here comes a chopper to cut off your head.
Movement at the kitchen doorway drew her attention.
“You okay, Maria? I’ll finish up for you if you want to go on home. You know… with the funeral tomorrow and all.”
“Thanks, Jose, but I’m fine. I’ll be finished in a minute.”
“If you’re sure…” Jose ducked back into the kitchen, out of Maria’s line of sight.
Michael would walk through that door any minute now and tell her it was all just a big mistake. Just one huge mistake.