Word Count: 281
I probably could just tell her the truth, about losing my job, not about stealing. She’d be furious at the first. But she’d likely leave me over the second. The holidays are nearly here and I just made a split second decision and slipped the gold bracelet into my pocket and left.
The mall is crowded, my elbows brush against people loaded like freight trucks with packages. I can’t take my hand out of my pocket; my fingers are glued on the gold ringlet with shame.
Safely out of the mall, I sit in my car, my hands on the wheel, half-wanting to go back and return it. That’s when I’d get caught. I can’t look at it, my prize, my booty. There is no joy in my acquisition. Will it feel any better when she opens it up Christmas Day? A box, I need a box. I’ll need to wrap it, to handle it, to set it like the sun shining in a cloud. Cover it with a lid like the night. Wrap it in sparkly paper and with the card, sneak it under the tree.
She’d admired it once when we went shopping. I almost bought it back then. Does that count for something, intent? It cost half of a mortgage payment. Will a warm living room take the chill out of my heart?
Oh, I’ll tell her. After Christmas, before the New Year. I’m usually home that week since my–the–company holds a shutdown. I’ll pick a good time. She’ll be wearing the gold bracelet. She’ll get that scared look on her face, insist on returning the bracelet.
And I’ll have to tell her, I can’t.
