The Confession

How well do we know anyone?

Photo by joyce huis on Unsplash

Maureen sat on the jagged boundary that separated the high water line from the dry sand, observing the tide and noting that soon she’d have to move her husband’s body before it floated out to sea. 

Paul laid on his back, eyes shut as if he had chosen the spot to sleep. 

Maureen picked up the smooth, black, flat stone to her left—solidified lava ejected from the planet’s bowels—and threw it into the ocean like a baseball pitcher casting a curveball. Maureen admired her skill: The stone skipped three times before sinking.

She glanced at Paul, who had been her husband for less than forty-eight hours before he died on their honeymoon in Kauai. Behind her, tall grass-covered mountains jutted into the bright azure sky, encircling a rainforest they’d never explore together.

The sun burned her skin. They had planned to quickly dip their toes in the Pacific, make love in their hotel room, and then, perhaps hours later or even tomorrow lather with sunscreen and return to the beach.

Ten minutes ago, Paul had taken Maureen’s hand, gently squeezed it, and said, “I haven’t been entirely honest with you.” And then he clutched his heart and died.

What did he want to confess? Had he slept with her bridesmaid? Did he have a criminal record? Was he a virgin until he met her, or was he a former prostitute? In debt to the mob? An addict? 

She would never know, which both saddened and confused her. 

Distracted by her thoughts, she didn’t notice the man in the gabardine suit until he loomed over her, blocking the sun and casting a thick shadow. 

She squinted. 

“Svetlana,” the man said in a heavy accent. “Sorry to interrupt your honeymoon, but the Center has an urgent assignment for you.”

She hadn’t been entirely honest with Paul, either.

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If you enjoyed The Confession, I think you’ll also like my story, The Dawn of Dogs.