She confessed to him that she had been sleeping with another man. She said she didn’t love him; she loved her husband. It had been momentary lust, nothing more. She only asked that he understand it had been a mistake. Still his wife and the mother of their children, if she could turn back time, she would.
“I see,” he said, before returning to silence. She said all she could say, and could no more.
“Could you pass me a cigarette?” he asked.
“But you don’t smoke,” she started. But seeing his demeanor; his relaxed shoulders, deep breaths, calm eyes, she took out the second-to-last cigarette, lit it between her red lips, and handed it to him.
He didn’t thank her, nor spare a glance. He whittled down the cigarette in silence until he could taste the filter. He kept the filter between his lips, small strings of smoke rising from it, breathing through his nose to escape the taste.
“Why aren’t you saying anything?” She asked.
“I’m thinking.”
She repeated her monologue.
“I know I keep saying the same thing but…” she paused, and without taking another breath, “please understand, I didn’t want this to happen.”
He said nothing.
The last rays of the sun filtered in through the windows, spreading long dark shadows over hues of orange and red. He made the mistake of looking up and seeing her face; her puffy eyes, her cheeks flushed red from alcohol, her small nose, her dimples formed by a nervous smile, and her kissable lips.
His legs moved, telling him to kiss her, and his heart echoed in his ears, telling him it would be okay. But he put his hand on his thigh to stop it, and listened to the hum of the refrigerator.
The scent of lilies spread from the bouquet he had brought home for her. The bottle of wine on the table was not yet empty.
When the sun reflected in her eyes, he felt tears welling up; tears he swallowed. He stood and carried the cigarette stump to the sink. He got a glass from the cupboard and poured what was left of the wine.
He turned his face away from her and walked to the window. The sun finally sank into the sea, erupting in an explosion of warm colors in the last moments before a long night. Would the sun get up in the morning, he wondered.
Do I still love this woman? he asked himself. An answer came, the same answer as always, the one he was not surprised to hear: I do.
“Say something,” she pleaded after minutes of silence. “Anything. I just want to hear your voice.”
What could he say without betraying himself, without shattering? He opened his mouth, but no words came. He lifted the glass to his lips, tasting the salt of dried tears. She held her breath, but he said nothing. He lowered the glass and stared at the horizon.
The yellow turned to orange. The pink clung to the clouds that grew darker as the light blue sky turned Prussian blue. The glitter on the ocean flickered like a candle against the wind, until it disappeared altogether and sank into the horizon.
The empty glass still in his hand, he weighed it before setting it down on the table. For minutes he stood motionless, knowing he had died, wondering how he would rise again in the morning. He didn’t know if she was still behind him or had gone to bed, but she too was stood quiet by another window, knowing she had killed him. Outside, the waves whispered against the shore, endless and unanswerable.