| Romance Fiction posted August 15, 2014 |
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Short Story
Jealous of Robert Faraday
by michaelcahill
She didn't lock her door. I guess that should have told me something, but it didn't. Caution surrounded our passion every bit as much as guilt did. She made every precaution to insure that not a molecule of my presence could ever be found in her house. Have you ever taken precautions that weren't necessary? I had been to her house countless times. Our families had been friends for years. We were friends and everyone knew we were friends. But, we weren't meeting as friends during these secret visits. No one would find my presence there suspicious, unless they happened to catch us upstairs.
I usually knocked softly three times. No one could hear it unless they had their ears tuned to the sound of it and nothing else. Neither of us qualified for the wild side. Hell, we both deaconed at the Nazarene Church on Curtis Avenue. Our families invariably sat side by side singing 'Nearer My God To Thee'. But every chance we got, I would be softly knocking on that door, my heart pounding in my chest, anticipating the moment that she would answer.
She felt exactly the same way. When that door opened, it took every ounce of decorum we possessed to slowly close the door as though we were civilized people meeting, perhaps, to discuss church business. The sound of the door clicking shut signaled the attack and unleashed passion that neither of us understood.
We had discussed it often by phone… very often. We made solemn vows to withstand it and have a normal friendship. We adored each other's company and the conversations that we had about everything in the world. I truly loved her friendship and the wonderful qualities she possessed. Why we were attracted to each other like wild animals, I couldn't tell you, especially being at or near fifty years of age respectively.
We would meet. Our vow to keep our hands off each other would last for a short period. Sometimes we would even make it into the kitchen and sit down for coffee. I'd watch her make a pot of coffee noting every muscle in her body and movement of her limbs. I would see her reach into the shelf for a coffee filter and shudder. It may as well have been a seductive dance, for the effect on me. She would sit in the chair by me. I'd put my hand on her leg and her pale skin would turn pink and her breathing would change. We'd both pretend that none of this occurred.
Then the discussion of why we couldn't have each other would commence. We'd go through the list of why it was wrong. We'd make our declaration of guilt, especially hers, that gnawed away on a daily basis. Her husband was a friend of mine, a good man and father to their three girls. If only he wasn't, how convenient that would be for me. There was nothing to justify what we were doing. Yet, we continued to do it.
And now, here I stood in her living room having entered her open door.
I called out, "Emily".
The report of the gun from upstairs didn't sound like a real gunshot. I didn't know what a gunshot should sound like, I just knew that what I heard wasn't it.
In a daze, I ran up the stairs somehow. I couldn't feel my feet or the stairs beneath them. Emily had shot herself in the head. There was no question of her death. The back of her head decorated the wall behind her. A note sat on the vanity by the far wall.
I didn't read it. I took my phone out of my pocket and dialed 911. I had no intention of running. If my name was on the note, I owed it to her to stand there and face it.
I realized that the police would call her husband. I felt strange calling him considering the circumstances, but I did so. Everyone, cops, husband and onlookers arrived at once.
The cops approached me for my story. I told them I had stopped by for coffee. I told them the truth about everything except the affair we had been having.
Finally, Officer Franco asked me, "Do you know, Robert Faraday, an insurance salesman?"
"No, I don't", I answered.
He continued, "According to the letter, she had an affair with him ten years ago and couldn't live with the guilt anymore".
That constituted the extent of the investigation. Her husband didn't have any idea who Robert Faraday was and neither did anyone else. His grief made forgiveness easy for her husband, especially considering how long ago it occurred.
My grief continues, as does my guilt. I also have a ridiculous feeling of jealousy. I'm jealous of Robert Faraday, and I am sure he isn't real.
She didn't lock her door. I guess that should have told me something, but it didn't. Caution surrounded our passion every bit as much as guilt did. She made every precaution to insure that not a molecule of my presence could ever be found in her house. Have you ever taken precautions that weren't necessary? I had been to her house countless times. Our families had been friends for years. We were friends and everyone knew we were friends. But, we weren't meeting as friends during these secret visits. No one would find my presence there suspicious, unless they happened to catch us upstairs.
I usually knocked softly three times. No one could hear it unless they had their ears tuned to the sound of it and nothing else. Neither of us qualified for the wild side. Hell, we both deaconed at the Nazarene Church on Curtis Avenue. Our families invariably sat side by side singing 'Nearer My God To Thee'. But every chance we got, I would be softly knocking on that door, my heart pounding in my chest, anticipating the moment that she would answer.
She felt exactly the same way. When that door opened, it took every ounce of decorum we possessed to slowly close the door as though we were civilized people meeting, perhaps, to discuss church business. The sound of the door clicking shut signaled the attack and unleashed passion that neither of us understood.
We had discussed it often by phone… very often. We made solemn vows to withstand it and have a normal friendship. We adored each other's company and the conversations that we had about everything in the world. I truly loved her friendship and the wonderful qualities she possessed. Why we were attracted to each other like wild animals, I couldn't tell you, especially being at or near fifty years of age respectively.
We would meet. Our vow to keep our hands off each other would last for a short period. Sometimes we would even make it into the kitchen and sit down for coffee. I'd watch her make a pot of coffee noting every muscle in her body and movement of her limbs. I would see her reach into the shelf for a coffee filter and shudder. It may as well have been a seductive dance, for the effect on me. She would sit in the chair by me. I'd put my hand on her leg and her pale skin would turn pink and her breathing would change. We'd both pretend that none of this occurred.
Then the discussion of why we couldn't have each other would commence. We'd go through the list of why it was wrong. We'd make our declaration of guilt, especially hers, that gnawed away on a daily basis. Her husband was a friend of mine, a good man and father to their three girls. If only he wasn't, how convenient that would be for me. There was nothing to justify what we were doing. Yet, we continued to do it.
And now, here I stood in her living room having entered her open door.
I called out, "Emily".
The report of the gun from upstairs didn't sound like a real gunshot. I didn't know what a gunshot should sound like, I just knew that what I heard wasn't it.
In a daze, I ran up the stairs somehow. I couldn't feel my feet or the stairs beneath them. Emily had shot herself in the head. There was no question of her death. The back of her head decorated the wall behind her. A note sat on the vanity by the far wall.
I didn't read it. I took my phone out of my pocket and dialed 911. I had no intention of running. If my name was on the note, I owed it to her to stand there and face it.
I realized that the police would call her husband. I felt strange calling him considering the circumstances, but I did so. Everyone, cops, husband and onlookers arrived at once.
The cops approached me for my story. I told them I had stopped by for coffee. I told them the truth about everything except the affair we had been having.
Finally, Officer Franco asked me, "Do you know, Robert Faraday, an insurance salesman?"
"No, I don't", I answered.
He continued, "According to the letter, she had an affair with him ten years ago and couldn't live with the guilt anymore".
That constituted the extent of the investigation. Her husband didn't have any idea who Robert Faraday was and neither did anyone else. His grief made forgiveness easy for her husband, especially considering how long ago it occurred.
My grief continues, as does my guilt. I also have a ridiculous feeling of jealousy. I'm jealous of Robert Faraday, and I am sure he isn't real.
I usually knocked softly three times. No one could hear it unless they had their ears tuned to the sound of it and nothing else. Neither of us qualified for the wild side. Hell, we both deaconed at the Nazarene Church on Curtis Avenue. Our families invariably sat side by side singing 'Nearer My God To Thee'. But every chance we got, I would be softly knocking on that door, my heart pounding in my chest, anticipating the moment that she would answer.
She felt exactly the same way. When that door opened, it took every ounce of decorum we possessed to slowly close the door as though we were civilized people meeting, perhaps, to discuss church business. The sound of the door clicking shut signaled the attack and unleashed passion that neither of us understood.
We had discussed it often by phone… very often. We made solemn vows to withstand it and have a normal friendship. We adored each other's company and the conversations that we had about everything in the world. I truly loved her friendship and the wonderful qualities she possessed. Why we were attracted to each other like wild animals, I couldn't tell you, especially being at or near fifty years of age respectively.
We would meet. Our vow to keep our hands off each other would last for a short period. Sometimes we would even make it into the kitchen and sit down for coffee. I'd watch her make a pot of coffee noting every muscle in her body and movement of her limbs. I would see her reach into the shelf for a coffee filter and shudder. It may as well have been a seductive dance, for the effect on me. She would sit in the chair by me. I'd put my hand on her leg and her pale skin would turn pink and her breathing would change. We'd both pretend that none of this occurred.
Then the discussion of why we couldn't have each other would commence. We'd go through the list of why it was wrong. We'd make our declaration of guilt, especially hers, that gnawed away on a daily basis. Her husband was a friend of mine, a good man and father to their three girls. If only he wasn't, how convenient that would be for me. There was nothing to justify what we were doing. Yet, we continued to do it.
And now, here I stood in her living room having entered her open door.
I called out, "Emily".
The report of the gun from upstairs didn't sound like a real gunshot. I didn't know what a gunshot should sound like, I just knew that what I heard wasn't it.
In a daze, I ran up the stairs somehow. I couldn't feel my feet or the stairs beneath them. Emily had shot herself in the head. There was no question of her death. The back of her head decorated the wall behind her. A note sat on the vanity by the far wall.
I didn't read it. I took my phone out of my pocket and dialed 911. I had no intention of running. If my name was on the note, I owed it to her to stand there and face it.
I realized that the police would call her husband. I felt strange calling him considering the circumstances, but I did so. Everyone, cops, husband and onlookers arrived at once.
The cops approached me for my story. I told them I had stopped by for coffee. I told them the truth about everything except the affair we had been having.
Finally, Officer Franco asked me, "Do you know, Robert Faraday, an insurance salesman?"
"No, I don't", I answered.
He continued, "According to the letter, she had an affair with him ten years ago and couldn't live with the guilt anymore".
That constituted the extent of the investigation. Her husband didn't have any idea who Robert Faraday was and neither did anyone else. His grief made forgiveness easy for her husband, especially considering how long ago it occurred.
My grief continues, as does my guilt. I also have a ridiculous feeling of jealousy. I'm jealous of Robert Faraday, and I am sure he isn't real.
 Recognized |
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This was going to be for the "She didn't lock her door" prompt. But, it appears I've entered too many prompts. This is inspired by an excellent essay written by Ideasaregems-Dawn. Lust Versus Love, it was called.
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