The Confession at Golden Hour
written by: Phyllis Souza
I’m nineteen, newly married, and sitting at my uncle’s table with my husband. I drink my uncle’s sweet, homemade red wine and say, “I’ve never tasted anything so delicious.” Laughing, I realize the wine hasn’t hit me yet. Another sip, then another—this is good. Gulp!
My husband says, “Better watch it; you’re getting drunk.”
I grin like a fool—then guilt washes over me. I wish I’d never married him. Does he know? How could he not? But maybe he thinks I married him for love. What does that make me? A fraud?
I’m giddy. I should tell him to take me home—home? More like a dumpy apartment. The wine is working.
Slurring, I say goodbye to my uncle, each word weighted with shame, and stumble out the back door, clinging to the arm—of him—my husband, the word’s reality catching in my throat.
I’m putting a finger to my lips—hush. Hush.
The setting sun streams into the car—my mother’s, since he can’t afford his own. He drives through the summer glow.
For a moment—like a desert mirage—he looks handsome. His hair seems thicker, his nose smaller, and his head larger. Maybe there’s a brain in there.
I must be dreaming. Like a snake, I slither across the seat and onto his chest, coiling around his neck. Illusions are wonderful—I’m free!
He pulls into the driveway, looks at me, and smiles. His smile is warm, but I force one back, uneasy.
The love nest is on the second floor.
It’s time for a golden-hour confession. The air in the apartment hangs thick.
The wine courses through my veins. It urges me: MAKE BEANS — NOT LOVE.
Inside, I stumble into the kitchen, open a drawer, and grab a bag of beans.
He stands in the doorway, watching me.
I tear open the bag, squint at him, then spill the beans. “I don’t love you.”
Beans are scattered across the floor.
I get down on my hands and knees to pick them up.
“I’m drunk,” but not so drunk that I don’t know what I’m saying.
“I don’t love you.”
No response.
“Did you hear me? I DON’T LOVE YOU!”
A wave of hurt rises between us—swift and unmistakable. He’s stunned, frozen in disbelief.
Guilt and sadness ripple through me as I witness the impact of my words.
It wasn’t fair to marry someone just to escape another.
Guilt wells up as I watch him. I feel his pain—the weight of my confession pressing down on me.
Regret mingles with honesty—sorrow for the wound I’ve caused.
“I’m just kidding,” I say. “I love you.”
He kneels beside me, helping me collect the beans.
Maybe my heart will change. Wishful thinking. What’s done is done.
NOTE:
Based on the Prompt – The Golden Hour Confession
- The Confession at Golden Hour - July 27, 2026
- Under the Fireworks - July 4, 2026
- Rock-a-Bye Curse - June 12, 2026
