Mr. Wednesday has the Urge to Confess

Mr. Wednesday was having a drink with a business colleague.  Through the large bar room windows he could see the curling tendrils of snow weave up and wisp away in the night.  He looked back at the empty glasses on the table, the warm, low light shining off them, and thought about her.  He was sentimental this evening.  He glanced at his associate, who grinned widely back and took another deep draught of his beverage.1

Mr. Wednesday had drunk too much.  He knew it and he knew why he did it. He became quiet and sad when he drank; and maybe it had been the snow dusting the streets and floating lightly in the air, or the look in her eyes this morning, a look he had never seen before; but he wanted this.  Wanted the comfort of his panging conscience, to be lifted and carried closely by his remorse.  2

His colleague signaled the bar tender.  Another round came and he reached for the glass.  Mr. Wednesday knew this man, not well, by any means, but friendly acquaintances, surely.  He had a pleasing, open face and a loud laugh that carried the sound of the alcohol he had consumed.  Mr. Wednesday looked at him, really looked at him.  He knew he wanted to tell him about her.  He leaned closer, placing his hands on the bar top in front of him and looking into his colleagues face.3

Mr. Wednesday told his associate that he was keeping a young girl captive.  He told his associate how beautiful she was.  Then he fell silent.  Waiting.4

His associate clapped him heartily on the back and laughed his loud laugh, saying: Yeah, he had one too.  In fact, he had a whole harem!  The alcohol slurred his words and prolonged his mirth.  His associate shook him slightly; hand still on his back, inviting him to share his merriment.  5

Mr. Wednesday stared at him while he described jovially the intricacies of his fantastical harem, then stood up without a word and walked out into the snow.  The pleasant sounds of the bar faded and Mr. Wednesday looked at his hands.  They were cut and bruised, a clumsy lacework of scars decorating the backs.  Tiny snowflakes swirled and melted against his warm skin.  6

What he had neglected to tell his associate, was that she had power over him.  Could ask him to do things, and he would do them.  He ran his fingers through his hair.  It gnarled and caught and he pulled at it with his fingers.  His good eye winced, the other eyebrow making a pantomime bow to the empty socket.  Mr. Wednesday sighed angrily and moved to his car.7

He would feel better tomorrow.8