Somehow, Matheus thought that the night he died should be fraught with weather straight out of the Old Testament. There should be thunderstorms and hurricane winds and floods with arks. His death should be epic. He wasn’t sure why. In the grand scope of human affairs, he was a speck, but dying still annoyed him, and the universe should have offered up some kind of acknowledgement. A full moon, or a particularly ominous-looking cloud; anything, really. No, the night he died had to be a standard issue, East Coast September evening, city lights tinting the sky orange, and a handful of wispy clouds hovering near the skyline. Sometimes, the universe didn’t appreciate proper atmosphere.
Of course, he didn’t realize this until later.
At the time, Matheus thought, God, I hope I don’t get mugged. He never visited this part of the city; no one did, unless condemned to live there or serve jury duty. Matheus wondered if convenience or coincidence located the courts in the section with the highest crime rate. The subway didn’t run out here; he’d had to take the bus, feeling more and more awkward the longer the trip lasted. At the end, Matheus was the only one in khakis and definitely the only one who even owned a sweater vest, let alone wore it in public. Seeing a bum eying him from a doorway, Matheus closed his coat over the argyle pattern. He ducked his head as he hurried past the bum, shoving down the reflexive guilt. He’d been raised Catholic, so he had a lot of practice.