Fiction: An Admission

    The ice at the bottom of the whisky tumbler clattered as he replaced it on the table, the sound cutting at his conscience. He told himself bitterly that it was only after the event that he seemed to have acquired one - a conscience. His insistent inner voice had been pestering him for nearly two weeks until, finally, he had dredged up the courage to admit what he had done. Or, more truthfully, what he had as good as done. 

    A number of cliches had come to mind.
        Look before you leap.
        Try before you buy (no, not that).
        The grass is always greener …
        Well, at least you know … (yeah, that’s better … an oldie but a not-so-goodie).

    With a sudden snap he twisted the top off the bottle he now held in his hand and began to pour. In his peripheral vision he sensed the minute-hand on the large wall clock jump towards the hour. Five o’clock. He’d been clock-watching for almost thirty minutes but, despite trying to control the reflex, his head jerked briefly towards the movement, diverting his attention.

    ‘Damn,’ he hissed when he poured some of the whisky onto the table. He half-replaced the top, placed the bottle on the floor and went to the cupboard for some kitchen paper. He couldn’t let Jane see that he’d been drinking. Again. She deserved to hear what he had to say from someone at least half sober. She probably deserved a lot of things. His habitual drinking had been one of the reasons they had never quite got their fifteen-month relationship together, and there he was, yet again, resorting to self-pity and Dutch courage.

    He ripped off a couple of pieces from the paper roll. They looked perversely like a white flag but he couldn’t surrender to his habit of trying to talk his way out of it this time. Dropping the paper onto the spillage, he gave it a quick swipe, picked up the Scotch, put them both under the sink and rinsed his hands.

    The door-bell rang.

    ‘That can’t be the time yet,’ he heard himself say, but he had to answer the door. He couldn’t procrastinate anymore. He had to tell her.

    Wiping his sweaty hands briefly on his trousers, John went to the door. His heart hammered in his throat. He took a breath. He wasn’t ready for this but then, he’d made his bed and he had to be the one to lie in it, so to speak. He stood at the door a second or two longer, his hand hanging precariously over the curved handle.

    You can do this. Part of his brain disagreed. 
    You are a fucking idiot.

    The low afternoon sun streaked into the room as he opened the door. A woman stood there but he couldn’t make her out immediately. The closed security door gave him some breathing space, but not enough to let doubt take a grip on his throat. John forced his voice into politeness.

    ‘Sorry. I’ll get that.’ He lowered his eyes to the angled lock.

    As he tried to unlatch it, the woman said: ‘Hi. I’m just …’

    His breathing had suddenly become shallow. He fiddled with the sticking clip. He had no idea what the woman was saying. 

    ‘Sorry, Jane. Sorry,’ he blurted as he finally got the lock disengaged and was able to open the door. ‘What did you ...?”

    He didn’t finish. This wasn’t Jane. Fuck! 

    This was someone else entirely, her wide, pleasant smile frightening him.

    ‘… wondering,’ she continued without pause, 'if you might be interested in learning more about Jesus Christ, your lord and saviour?’

~~~

Author’s note: This piece was written as part of a writing course. 

The premise - John admits to Jane that he has cheated on her.