The Confession

          He wrung his hands together and stalked back and forth across the room like a starved lion pacing its cage. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead and he noticed that the glass he was holding had spilled water across the carpet. He sat down on the bed. Sat up. Checked his watch—6:40 PM—she’d be home in five minutes. By 6:45 PM, he thought, it would all be over. He’d say it as soon as she walked in the door.

            He looked out the window and watched his six-year-old son ride his bicycle in the driveway. A pained grimace came to his face as he remembered what had been the catalyst to all of this—his son, really. If only he’d taken the boy to school on time that day, he wouldn’t have met her and this would not have happened. This. This cobweb from which he was about to sever himself. She would understand. She would understand that he’d been lonely with her late hours at work and that the affair had been short-lived. She would forgive him and they could forget about everything.

            A car door slammed in the driveway and he strode to the garage door with a sudden rush of euphoria. He felt almost giddy with the prospect of relief. She reached the door before he did and it burst open. But it was not she who opened it. His neighbor pulled him through the door and in the street he saw two cars, an ashen-faced teenager standing dumbstruck next to a Corvette, and he saw her screaming over the body of their son. A blur of flashing red lights crossed his vision and he heard the voices of paramedics somewhere in the background.

            “Time of death? Time of death: 6:45 PM.”