Caught

“It was you, wasn’t it?”

“No, it wasn’t.”

Jessie looks at me, her face placid. She appears calm on the outside, but I know better. Holding my breath, I look out the window over her shoulder, and silently begin counting to twenty. On eighteen, I hear the tap of her fingers, slow and rhythmic, on the kitchen table. I look down and see each nail is painted blood red. Her pace increases, bringing the image of an intense rainstorm. The thunder will be forthcoming if I don’t cave.

My eyes close and my shoulders slump. Being with someone who knows you inside and out and is still willing to stay is an amazing gift. It also makes it borderline impossible to get away with anything. Especially if you’re a man.
With closed eyes, I visualize her slight, close-mouthed smile. I take a deep, quivering breath.

“No.”

“No?”

I open my eyes, and level my gaze. We both narrow our eyes.

“I’m not falling for this trick again. You can’t prove I’ve done anything wrong.”

Jessie gives me that sly smile and says, “Only someone who’s done something wrong says something like that.”

I grimace, but decide to stay silent. I’m done putting bullets in her gun. Jessie knows a last line of defense when she sees it. With a growing smile, she slides from her chair and heads towards me. My body tenses. Passing by, she slides a fingernail along the side of my throat. Goosebumps and body hair rise, as I’m instantly on guard.

Turning, my eyes are drawn to the navy top she was wearing that is now on the floor. I see her shadow turn the corner.

“Okay,” I yell, “I was watching the game and let the soup burn. It wasn’t the kids.”