Five Days on the Banks of the Acheron

The Impressionist

There was no turning back now, and Edward knew it. He suspected that Sara had been cheating on him, and now was his chance to prove it one way or another. And, yes, it would probably be a painful process. That was simply another cruelty of life.

He wanted to know what had been going on behind his back, but he didn't want to rush headlong into the shock. That would be like jumping into a swimming pool in the dead of winter. So he decided to ease into the murky, troublesome waters one foot at a time, inch by inch. He braced himself for the coming chill.

Slipping effortlessly into the depths of her memory, he grabbed Sara's hands. The images that flashed across his retinas were instantaneous but blurry. Edward thought of all the times Sara's hands had caressed him, explored each and every muscle, held him close. He hoped against hope that the man in Sara's memories was him. Yet, it was hard to glimpse the face that those dear sweet hands cradled. In one impression, those hands were preparing a candlelit dinner. That was one thing that Edward remembered. It made him feel a little bit better about things. What he didn't remember was those same hands pulling a bottle of champagne out of the ice. He hated champagne.

Edward's was the curse of touch and of trusting too much. He was an impressionist, and the memories of those he came in contact with were his memories too. For a brief moment, he regretted his habit of drinking a beer every now and then in bed. Sara had still been at work, and he had just turned back the comforter, intent on watching a little TV. before turning in. He had only taken a few swallows of his drink when he spilled it. Knowing that he would have Sara's haranguing to deal with if the sheets were wet when she got home, Edward raced to strip the bed. And then his hands found that one place on the bedclothes that still carried a faint trace of memory despite numerous spin cycles, that one place which still bore a stain of adultery despite all attempts to bleach it clean. Edward glimpsed Sara and another man in his bed. The lover's face wasn't clear, and at first, he tried to convince himself that the man with his wife was actually him. But never in his life had his hair been black and curly. His was straight, brown, and shoulder length.

Of course, Edward knew his job was partly to blame. It kept him away from home more than any husband had a right to be. And even when he did have a spare hour for Sara, the office was perpetually calling and interrupting their time together. That was no excuse for infidelity, but it was certainly a reason for seeking an escape from solitude.

Edward had never betrayed Sara despite the long hours and the days away from her. He had assumed that she could handle the burden of being apart just as well as he could. He had been wrong.