No More Lies
by Ken Furie
Charlie paced the kitchen in his plaid boxers. He could summon no magic words that would cushion what was sure to be a horrible jolt. “Luisa, my dear, I’m awfully sorry, but I’ve been banging the sweet daylights out of your sister for six months and I think I’m in love.” Right. Absolutely. That’s breaking it gently.
He peeked into the bedroom. Luisa slumbered on, still as a corpse, unaware of the oncoming bus about to demolish her world. He hated doing it, but he couldn’t keep going this way.
He filled a glass with the Oregon pinot they’d opened last night. Six a.m. wasn’t too early, right? He tossed his head back and newborn sunbeams crucified him as he drained the glass. The wine had a nice lingering tail, so he poured another glass.
Give me the strength to do this, he whispered to the wine.
Luisa appeared at last, thick and muzzy. She saw the bottle, looked him up and down. He expected a scold but she plucked a clean glass and held it out for him to fill.
Charlie poured. Luisa gulped the pinot and blurted, “Charlie, I have something to tell you and I can’t find the right words, so I’m just going to blurt it out. I’m in love with your father. We’ve been seeing each other secretly for over a year. Charlie, I’m so tired of pretending. I just can’t lie anymore. I’m sorry.”
He gawped, thunderstruck. “My father? You whore, how could you?”