White Flag

He sat at the desk, working on the Carmichael case. She walked in and sat down right in front of him. Neither said a word.

Patience had never been his virtue, but she had it in abundance. It was no surprise that he had to start things off. He continued to pound the keyboard frustrated that each command yielded yet another error message, “Why?”

It was sufficiently vague to elicit a response from Melanie, “Why what?”

“Why are you sitting in that chair? Why now? What’s the point?”

Melanie mulled over her choices in that slow methodical manner that infuriated Bill. He knew from past experience that she would lie. Again. “Don’t bother. I am not interested in your version of ‘truth’. I don’t think you have anything to say that I want to hear. Leave.”

“I did come to apologize.”

Her heavy lilac fragrance was like a wire zinging through his brain, causing shooting lights behind his eyes. At the risk of looking weak, he massaged his temples to relieve the pressure. “You were the one who left. Remember? You should have stayed gone. I moved on. You have no reason to be here. Now go.”

“I think you should hear me out.”

“I have work to do. Unless you have something to add to solve this case,” looking at her, he knew, “or unless you want to confess sabotaging my work.”

“I only did that so that you would talk to me. I can fix it. All you have to do is listen for two minutes. Can you do that?”

“No. You won’t see any white flag from me. Now that I know, I can fix your junk programming. Leave.”

“If I leave, I won’t be back.”

“Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”



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