Guilt

Meredith heard the key in the front door and felt a surge of pleasure. It was not usual for him to ask her to go to his apartment on a weekday evening, but it had happened before. His text message had given nothing away. He just asked her to be there by seven o’clock. He had said nothing about dinner. She hoped that meant that either he would bring provisions home, or that they might walk down to one of the nearby bistros. It was a lovely weekday treat – to sleep over. Her workplace was on the other side of town to his. They couldn’t do this all the time, but sometimes it was worth the effort to get up so early the next day.

She rose from her chair and met him at the front door. She always met him at the front door. It was one of his rules. His first image when he walked through the door was of her smiling, happy. He smiled back, took her in his arms and hugged her. He walked her to the kitchen, picked her up and put her up on the bench. She had taken off her shoes and being several inches shorter than him, this was the way he chose to talk to her; eyeball to eyeball.

Neither one of them was yet to say a word. She knew to wait; to wait for him to set the pace, advise her of the agenda for the evening. She saw him search her face; consider her. But, he wasn’t looking at her makeup, or her hair, or what she wore; none of those superficial considerations this evening. He was looking into her soul. He was examining her conscience.

His eyes were burrowing deep into her inner world. She knew this. She knew this because she had been bad, and her conscience was troubled. She would never know how, but he was able to tap directly into the tension; the conflict in her, a conflict between good and bad. He seemed to understand the duality in her, in everyone.

One side of her was driven by greed and ambition. She hadn’t become a leading prosecutor by taking a back seat in the Justice Department. She’d lied, ruined other people’s careers and put self-interest above all other things. However, she had also paid a price. There was shame and her conscience sometimes had her paralysed. Did she really say that? Did she really do that? But, they were fleeting moments – a nightmare here, a moment of clarity there; only sometimes.

When he had examined her long enough for her to know that he knew, he moved away. He took the champagne from the refrigerator, opened it and poured them each a glass. He handed her a glass, they clinked glasses and each took a few sips. Then, he took her glass from her, and put it down beside his, further down the long marble bench.

“Have you anything to tell me?” he asked her...

© Vesta
2009