Approaching Parsons

Journal Entry – October 01, 1871

The dining room was bathed in golden lamplight, soft enough to make even the plainest of company seem tolerable. I arrived late, of course—sash drawn tight, perfume trailing behind me like a promise. Abigail was already seated, hands folded neatly in her lap like a child too pious for her own good. She smiled when I approached, and for a moment I almost believed it was genuine.

They served roast pork and stewed apples, fresh bread with real butter, and absinthe disguised as cordial. I drank two glasses. Then three. Abigail sipped water, her lips barely wetting the rim. She spoke politely, as if each word had passed through scripture before reaching her mouth. But I could see it in her eyes—how she watched me. Not with judgment. Not quite. More like curiosity tethered to fear.

I laughed too loud. Flirted with the server. Licked the sugar from the absinthe spoon with just enough ceremony to draw a blush from the old farmer two tables over. I didn’t do it for Abigail. I did it for me. But still—I saw the way she shifted in her seat, how her knuckles whitened as she clutched her fork. Her righteousness is a threadbare quilt; it won’t keep her warm forever.

Later that night, I let a stranger into my room. He was wealthy, married, smelled of saddle soap and secrets. I didn’t ask his name. I let him tell me I was beautiful. I let him believe I was his first sin. He wasn’t mine.

Somewhere past the first climax and before the second, I felt it—that tug in the air like the moment before a storm. I paused, barely breathing, and glanced toward the door. A flicker. Movement. The smallest shadow cast from a boy-sized silhouette just beyond the keyhole.

Michael.

I didn’t cry out. I didn’t cover myself. I simply met his eye through the crack—because I knew he saw me. Not the act. Me. The woman his mother warned him about. The one his hands would tremble to touch someday. I held his gaze for a breath longer than I should’ve. And then I smiled.

The man never noticed. He never notices anything.

But Michael will remember.

The air is thick with consequence.