The Shadow of Regret

Moonlight bathes the bed, washing away darkness, making the shadows gather in one corner. There is a woman under the covers, she is lying in a fetal position, beads of sweat, made silver by the moon, dampen her forehead. She is whimpering, troubled by what she sees in her sleep.

A shadow detaches itself from the corner and moves silently toward her. It stops at the foot of the bed.

The shadow's name is Dechen Caine. He still thinks of the woman in the bed as his wife, although the lawyers, who plagued him with restraining orders and demands for money for the last eighteen months of his marriage, would disagree.

Dechen doesn't believe in divorce, not for one mistake. Marriage is for life. The only thing that should end it is death. His or hers. He is sure that Neera knows this. They took vows together. They made promises to each other before God. No lawyer can change that.

Dechen is not sure why he came. At first the chase had been the thing. They had refused to tell him where Neera was. Told him to stay away from his own wife. But Dechen was good at finding things out. He was patient and thorough and had the money from his share of the house sale. Lawyers had forced him to sell. It has taken him three years, but he has discovered her new address. And now he is here. Paying Neera a visit.

Dechen can feel the anger, it rears up as he stands at the foot of the bed; a wave of hate and violence that he can either ride or let wash through him. He hadn't realized till now there was a knife in his hand. Moonlight bleeds along the sharp edge of the blade as he holds it before him, as if cutting the night itself.

Put the knife down. You love Neera. Remember?

Dechen has spent the past three years doing nothing but remembering. Neera who laughed and pulled faces and told him she loved him. Each night he watched their wedding video, listening to the promises they had made and wondering if Neera had ever meant to keep them. All of it still on the surface of his mind.

Don't give way to the anger. Think about the good things. Remember when you met her on that plane?

Neera changed his life; changed who he was and who he wanted to be. It was a meeting of destiny as he recounts their meeting.

On a flight from London to Basel; yet another trip to Switzerland. Business class is half-empty. He has a window seat and is looking forward to some solitude. Dechen doesn't talk to people on planes. He prefers to look out of the window or sleep.

There is a flurry of activity at the hatch as the last passenger arrives, breathless and apologetic. Dechen looks up to see what the fuss is about and catches his first glimpse of Neera. A strand of hair stuck to her cheek, face flushed, wearing her smile like a shield against the havoc her lateness is causing. When he realizes she is taking the seat next to him, losing all that space, his irritation is palpable. She has a flight bag, a laptop, and a coat over her arm. He watches her struggle to load it in the overhead locker. Her suede bolero jacket falls open and her white cotton shirt stretches against her breasts.

She starts to talk to him before sitting down. Apologizing for being late. Telling him about her nightmare trip and how she is usually always on time. He can't prevent a mental grimace. Still, her accent announces her as American, so he makes allowances.

As she sits, she tells him her name, offering her hand. He reluctantly accepts it into his. "Dechen," he says. Her skin is warm and soft. Hair thick and heavy, shoulder length, mid-brown with strands of copper that catch the light. She is still talking. He isn't listening. He's aware of her perfume, knows it to be expensive and wonders if she selected it herself or if it was a gift from a lover. She pushes her fingers through her hair while she talks, an absent-minded caress that draws him to her. He notes that she is left-handed and is not wearing a wedding ring.

The four-hour flight flashes by. When the crew announce ten minutes to landing Neera leans into him, places her hand on his wrist. "You are such a good listener. All I've done is talk. I have not asked you anything about yourself. All I know is your name. Look, I have folks meeting me at the airport but I'm here all week. We can meet for dinner," she says. "Here's my card, give me a call." He knows that Americans make this kind of offer lightly.

"That's generous. I'm afraid it wouldn't take long or be interesting," he says.

"Wow, you really know how to schmooze a girl, don't you? Just kidding. No look really. I'd like to talk to you again," she says.

He is aware of her hand on his wrist. He looks into her eyes and smiles, this time without effort. Her pupils dilate. Dechen knows that he is a handsome guy, dark and mercurial.

Staring down at Neera, her eyes fluttering rapidly under her eyelids.

He has no idea what he is going to do next. He lets the moment decide. For once he acts without thinking and raises his arm holding the knife. With a deliberate powerful plunge, he pulls the knife down into his chest.

Neera no longer looks as if she is sleeping. She is almost awake. But not quite. Eyes not yet drawn to blood-stained note on her pillow.