Burn
written by: Robert L. Penick
The missiles hit Washington at 8 p.m., Eastern Standard Time.
You are treating yourself to dinner at the third-best restaurant in town. Your husband left today after calling you a liar, cheat, and whore. Counted off the litany of your failures, from the bad checks to shoplifting to the three affairs during your ten-year marriage. The last tryst ended six months ago and was the last. You promised. But your word is as bad as your checks, he said, then packed up his last box, shouldered his gym bag, and exited your life. Now you poke at the remains of your filet mignon (medium well) and wonder how to fix yourself.
At 8:20 P.M., the first diner gets a text. The Pentagon is in ruins, he announces loudly, the White House in flames. A dozen cell phones materialize, and the maître d’ rushes to check the television in the general manager’s office. You have tried hard to rehabilitate your flawed soul. Six months faithful. The larceny probation ends in another three. Things were looking up; you maintained your balance and were acting your way into a new self. Then he finds out about Number Three, and all that work is wasted.
By 8:30, all the wait staff has disappeared into the back to see Washington lit up like Halloween. A woman weeps openly while studying her iPhone. Your salad has been reduced to a few wilted leaves, and the bottle of Cabernet is empty. You gave it a shot: No more lies, no trickery, you swore allegiance to virtue. It just didn’t work out. Like this dinner. What will this cost? Eighty dollars? One hundred with tip? You still feel sad. You leave that room of frightened people, slip out the door unnoticed, and disappear back into the night.
