A Confession Of Love


In these last days and hours before my final breath may I, Gordon Richard Carlson, lay my guilt and thoughts before you as a matter of conscience, if not regret, so that I might meet my maker free of worldly deceit, if nothing else.

I was, and largely remained, a man of detail, head of the Office Of Statistical Analysis in the county where I live. My wife also worked because I was, by her own admission, incapable of supporting a household of any standing by myself.

She was punctilious in all matters of social standing and appearance, insuring maintenance of the marital home in everything but intimacy: no carpet was uncleaned or dish unwashed, no book undusted, though not read, and everything maintained to standards of unfeeling excellence I always thought. Does that sound too bitter or too harsh?

To me she was correct in everything which did not involve mess or unleashed joy and I lived by those dictates while quietly shrinking inside myself, unaware of my own circumstance till events conspired to provide me with an alternative.

As the demands on my department grew, staffed only by me, I was offered an assistant who would help me with my work. Clarice Brown, ordinary to the casual glance, that was her view, was beautiful to my shy and awkward gaze. She grew to love me, as I did her: being together gave purpose to our days. Our feelings grew silently over time as duties conspired to entwine our lives and then our hearts.

She was a younger person than me by eighteen years and the product of a strict and controlling family, still living with her mother and father, and I was a man just past his fortieth birthday, sited somewhere beyond hope, but gentle I like to think, and caring of the unregarded in a way which gradually gained her attention and then her love. We formed a conspiracy of private and diffident urgencies unnoticed by the world.

One Friday, and recklessly, I pinned her up against the filing cabinet and told her I loved her. She knew all about the barren pieties which were my home but, faced with this commitment and sincerity, I felt her pious resolve melt and then we kissed. We kissed more each day, two souls who found purpose in each other’s lives. Our hearts bonded in secret desperation until, over the coming months, as intimacies grew beyond anything I had previously known we became lovers in every physical sense.

I loved her then and now. We discovered what life and urgency might bring to those who think that “Ordinary” is not a world they seek. Finally I decided, regardless of the cost, that I would leave my wife and marry her, and walk the path of knowledge without guilt.

I bought a ring, premature I recognise, to pledge my love, and prepared to place my life in her palm and tell my wife that all we had was gone but Clarice did not come to work that day, or any day again: an accident had robbed me of her life and longed for destiny.

By some bewildering chance, our love and intimacy had grown without it being public knowledge so when I was told that Clarice Brown had been involved in an accident and killed I merely nodded and said, “How sad” because privacy of emotion is the last sanctuary of the disenfranchised.

I attended her funeral, together with my wife, and passed on our commiserations to her family, giving my own feelings the weight they deserved, which is no weight at all.

Now thirty-six years later I slide away from life, breathless and without strength. My wife, punctilious to the last and ignorant of my feelings, visits me in hospital every day, noting the cost of my daily treatment. We have, and had, no pets, because pets can make a mess, and no children because that requires intimacy, unsettling at best, but we have a house, paid for now, and paintings of value I believe, which she will possess when I am gone.

But if there is a hope in life’s eternities, Clarice will greet me at the gates, kiss me with that warmth she always did, and walk with me across Infinity. If there is hope.

About Peter Wells aka Countingducks

Trying to remember what my future is
This entry was posted in creative writing, Fiction, Love, Peter Wells, Relationships, Romance, Uncategorized and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

19 Responses to A Confession Of Love

  1. Jack Eason says:

    Love it Peter – love it…

    Like

  2. Oh, so sad, and beautifully conveyed. The ‘voice’ is just right.

    Liked by 1 person

  3. dtrichards says:

    Rosemary took my words away. I like how, especially in the first four paragraphs, you paint a double-sided picture of propriety and emptiness. Good work, Peter!

    Liked by 1 person

  4. lenawalton says:

    What a bitter sweet story.

    Like

  5. Waqar Ahmed says:

    Awesome, really Cool. Hope its just a story and not you on the deathbed..!

    Liked by 1 person

  6. beth says:

    ‘unfeeling excellence’ . devastating. and he was still hopeful at the very end.

    Liked by 1 person

  7. Al says:

    Another spell-binding tale well told, Peter.

    After all these years under your literary spell it finally occurred to me of whom your writings most remind me. Charles Dickens.

    Like Dickens, you have a power to incisively describe characters and events such that we are transported immediately into their lives. We can almost touch and speak to them.

    I’ve always been fascinated by the possibility that reincarnation might be real. When I read your stories, I’m sure of it.

    Liked by 1 person

  8. True love always finds a way, even if it takes time. Good story Peter.

    Like

  9. A wonderfully confessional tale, Peter. I am beginning to imagine his wife departing the world the day after him, an afterlife being real and a menage a trois which they missed out on whilst alive!

    Liked by 1 person

  10. catterel says:

    One of your best, I think, Peter. Very touching.

    Like

  11. Jack Eason says:

    Reblogged this on Have We Had Help? and commented:
    More frrom Peter….

    Like

  12. nelle says:

    Once again a nice exploration of the great diversity that exists in the connections of humans.

    Like

  13. Scarlet says:

    There is always hope.
    Sx
    Did you get my email, Mr Ducks? Or did it end up in the spam tray?

    Like

  14. GD says:

    I love this. So authentic, as a first time reader I was a little worried it was authentic at first! Fantastic read.

    Liked by 1 person

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.