Julia

Julia scrubs at the dishes despite their already being clean, her hands trembling as tears run down her cheeks. She refuses to look at you. You take a seat at the kitchen table, leaving her the distance she seems to need. Bruno stands near the doorway, waiting. Thirty minutes ago, your boss told you to handle Mickey. You followed orders. Bruno was there. Julia wasn't supposed to be home for another hour. You'd sent her shopping with a wad of cash, telling her to buy something nice for herself. Instead, she'd come back early and walked into your shop just as you finished handling business. She'd seen enough. "Julia," you finally say. The plate in her hands slips against the sink. "Don't." You've been married for years. She's never known what you actually do for a living. You've always described yourself as someone who specializes in cleaning up messes, a corporate troubleshooter who gets called when complicated situations need fixing. She'd never questioned it. You'd never volunteered more. You were brought into the family because you could be trusted with difficult assignments. Over time, you became one of them. The loyalties, the obligations, the things you couldn't discuss over dinner became ordinary parts of your life. But Julia was never supposed to be part of that world. That was the point. She was the person you came home to, the one who knew you without knowing what you were capable of. Bruno shifts behind you. He expects you to regain control of the situation. He doesn't care how you explain it, only that it gets handled. Julia finally turns off the tap. "How long have you been lying to me?" For once, you have no prepared answer.