Liars

When Jim's wife came home early and found him in bed with another woman, he thought for sure that their marriage was over. His wife didn't scream, didn't fight. It was as if she had dropped a mirror and was peering down over the shattered pieces. Later, Jim and his wife were at the kitchen table and she asked him to just be honest. He said that he had trouble being honest sometimes, but he would try.

"It just happened, you know?"

But that wasn't honest. The girl was an interior designer at his architecture firm. She was funny and sophisticated, did her job well, and never complained. Jim had trouble trying to not stare at her breasts. It was three days until Christmas, and he invited a few coworkers out for drinks one night after a huge deal had closed, and even though she didn't know any of his friends very well, he invited her too. Sitting at the table, Jim and the woman held their own conversation. It flowered with innuendos, salacious flirting budded out and the boys knew what was up. They each casually got up and left the two to their peace. Jim and the girl hardly noticed anyone else had left.

"We were really drunk . . .

I uh, I'm so sorry . . .

"honey, wait. honey, listen. I know what I did was wrong."

Her cold back was silent.

"Listen. Honey, listen. Im so sorry. Im so, so sorry." He reiterated "so" like an infomercial, and, although he hadn't planned it, cliches came rolling out of his mouth quickly.

It didn't mean anything and it was an accident. It was an error, a simple mistake.

He felt he could not better make her understand so fell silent, back hunched on the opposite side of the bed as the daylight died. He expected this, and shook his head robotically.

He began to speak again, finding the moment monotonous. He sighed, rather loudly, surprising himself and as his mouth opened he chose not to speak because he realized his wife had been crying. But she had stopped now and simply sat there, unmoving. He could not see what she was staring at. The realization that she was crying moved him, and so he again apologized,

"Listen, honey. I can't tell you how sorry I am . . ." he trailed off and after a distinct pause, when silence became like humidity, she said

"No, its fine. It really is; I promise."

Promise floated off her tongue like the hiss from a boiler. The room got smaller, but still she drifted over to the mirror, let down her hair, and got ready for bed.

That night Jim dreamt he was driving a really nice Italian car. He was speeding through the country for what seemed like hours. He was having fun until he realized he kept passing the same hillside, barn, and water tower. He got out of his car confused. When he turned around a black and white city was hunched there, looming over him.

That morning Jim woke up and took a hot shower. He whistled on his way to work, happy to have avoided a collision with his wife. She said everything was fine, and he felt his blockade of trouble's begin to wash away with the morning rain.

Yet he had trouble concentrating all day. Something seemed wrong, like a tired chess player will without warning give up suddenly and start making fatal errors. It was so sudden, and Jim didn't see it at first but now it wore on him like a blister.

When he came home his wife was reading Fortune 500 and didn't seem bothered. She said "hey" casually, but not too casually, so Jim knew she wasn't hiding any bothered feelings about the incident.

"What do you want to do about dinner?"

She shrugged. "Whatever is fine."

There it was again, "fine." He was looking for some sort of odd tonal shift that might give him an idea that his wife really was hurt or angry. He had recited another eloquent apology on the way home, and now in his mind he was hitting the high notes. But she really did seem fine, almost uncaring. Jim kept waiting for an explosion, or even a whimper. None came.

That night, in bed, she finished her magazine, flipping the pages mechanically. Leant over, kissed him on the cheek.

"Goodnight."

Still no altered tones. At this point Jim was almost disappointed. She switched off her bedside lamp and rolled over with her back to him. He thought about how her back looked like polished metal.

That night he dreamt in color for the first time. He was limping through the hunched city, and everywhere people were being stabbed to death.