A Story of Sin and Retribution
Something Different
The following is a story of sin and retribution:
It was the seventh day of the seventh month. Lover’s shared secret moments and all the single ladies were millin’ about looking for husbands.
Iris, ever faithful to her husband Shen, was now alone. On this night, of all nights. She knew right where he was at. His passion had long since faded and the light in his eyes had gone dim. But recently she’d seen it come back, at least somewhat, if only in flashes. And she knew why. He’d been sleeping with someone new.
She never mentioned it to him. She could forgive his infidelity, but to hear him lie about it would be more than she could bear. It’s not the sin that bothers most women. It’s the deception. The fact that you were lying about it, hiding it; that’s what guts them.
Shen of course had been leading his mistress on to false dreams. Not purposely. It almost never is purposefully when a man leads a woman on. In a case like this it’s just that when a man’s lyin’ in bed with a woman and she says things, it’s enough to excite his imagination. It’s enough to excite anyone’s. So when she told him he should leave his wife, quite naturally and without thought he said “it’s a good idea. Then we could be together openly, how fresh! Wouldn’t it be grand?”… Love is the ultimate deception.
However, on this night, his duty to his wife was weighing heavy on his conscience. Naturally, as it was the night of the Weaver’s Star. So he made way to leave his mistress so as to spend the night with his wife and of course the mistress protested.
He put up with her pleading for a minute or two. When she reached her fever pitch, she said “would it make a difference if I told you I love you?”
He looked about but said nothing. Took a single rose out of the bouquet that he’d brought her and he left.
He’d made up his mind, something was to be done. Hard it is to leave a faithful woman when she’s given you no reason to leave.
He opened the door to his house. Iris was alone, drinking. He tossed her the rose and it fell to the floor.
She said, “I won’t bother asking you where you were.”
He said, “I’m here now, doesn’t that count for something?”
She gulped her wine and spoke ‘neath her breath “what difference would it make?” Then, not much louder, she said “thanks for the rose.”
He poured himself a drink and crossed the floor. As he approached to sit next to her, she thrust her glass into his hand. Naturally, instinctively, as happens after years of acquaintance with someone, he filled her glass without the necessity of words.
“Have you been out to see the stars? They’re really quite lovely.” He said.
“I’ve seen them before,” she said, “I must’ve read them wrong.”
“Oh, what’s the use,” he said “you’re inconsolable. Tonight, of all nights.”
“You act like I don’t know. You play coy. You act like this hasn’t been tearing at my mind!” She said.
“Yours isn’t the only mind that’s tearing! How do you think we got here?” he beamed.
“Then why tear your own mind?” She said flatly.
“Not only mine, hers too…” he said.
“Poor girl. And why shouldn’t both of your minds be torn?” she said without regard as she drank her wine.
“Don’t speak like that,” he said.
“Like what,” she said.
“Don’t speak so evil… Would it even make a difference if I told you I love you?” he said.
She said nothing. She just grabbed the rose from the floor and started picking off its petals. His anger and confusion ate him. He left out the front without closing the door.
She continued picking off the petals and said softly to the rose “would it even make a difference if I told you I love you?”