Under The Lamp

He shifted slightly, fidgeting under the light of the lamp. Sweat poured from his face and his clamy hands as he swallowed and cleared his throat. I tried to show as little emotion on my face as possible, waiting for him to crack. I’d seen his type before; a man who comes home late for dinner with some other woman’s lipstick on his collar and perfume on his breath, and still denies all involvement. His face said everything. All I had to do was wait for him to crack, spill his guts, sing like a canary. I turned the heat of the lamp into his face and asked again, “Where is your boss?” He narrowed his eyes to block out the light and furrowed his brow to show his disatisfaction. His lip quivered. I had him now.