I remember the summer that my parents crumbled. The anger etched upon my fathers brow; the shame on the end of my mothers quick clipped sentences.
It was two years before the affair came to light, but the August sun blazed never the less
I haunted the halls after dark quietly creeping along the walls silent specter adjusting the thermostat as low as it could go.
I didn’t know what, yet I knew; it was all wrong. Mother knew it too, and father just waited. Waited for it to catch up. Waiting as the tired marsh hare waits, knowing that the alligator is near, yet too tired. Too tired to fight the inexorable.
My family grew cold, and all the while the night sweltered leaving the Spanish tiles sweating as the faithful air conditioner chugged on.