Moral Twilight

“It's not wrong,” I say.

“But it isn't right,” Jack replies.

“She's my wife, so there's that.”

“Really?” he says. “It just feels like... I don't know, moral turpitude.”

“Nah,” I say. “I don't know what that means, exactly. When I painted, I used acrylics, never oil paint and turpitude.” I study him. “So it's moral twilight at most.”

“You don't know shit.” Jack chews on his soggy Burger King fries, eyeing me with disdain. “How about, no?”

My Volkswagen Jetta smells of old junk food wrappers and a vanilla milkshake I spilled. When was it, last week? Outside, The parking lot churns around us with car arrivals and departures. Stretch out my hands, palms up. “I'm only asking for you to drive, Jack, not participate.”

“It's criminal.”

“Not even,” I say. “I'm her husband.”

“Her ex-husband,” he corrects.

“Hasn't even been a year. Still my house.” I grab the last fry, gone mushy in a pool of ketchup.

Jack removes the bridge from his upper teeth, as he does when thinking. “Come on, we both know she got the house in the settlement.”

“Jesus, you're talking lawyers and documents, while I'm talking love, our eternal connection.” I turn. “Put your bridge back in. I hate that lisping, whistling sound you make.” He obeys. “Anyway, it's my stuff. I'm not taking the house, just what's mine.”

Jack frowns. “If a cop sees you carrying a chair, a TV set, he'll assume theft.”

“Why would cops show up?” I crack my neck. “I'm just getting a Rolex, jewelry, some cash I left behind. Small stuff.”

“I don't know.” Jack's face twists with confusion. “So why use my car for this then?”

“If a neighbor recognized mine, they might say something later on.” I smile. “You're just a random stranger idling outside.”

“And what am I doing exactly?”

“Texting me if anyone should come by while I'm inside.”

Jack's face prunes up. “Then why do I got to wear a mask too?”

“Dude, it's not my fault. It's that bullshit facial recognition technology,” I say. “I want to protect our innocence.” No reaction. “So we don't get painted with a broad's brush.”

“What broad? The hell you talking about?” Jack scowls, breathes like a dying chain smoker, and burps. “Okay, fuck, let's get this over with.”

#

We drive across a bridge from downtown to her fancy neighborhood in Jack's '96 Civic. Instead of tiny apartments in tall buildings where we come from, it's all residential homes on small lots. Her house sits dark. Jack parks by the next home beyond hers, also dark. The Florida neighbors are rarely there. We sit a while watching the sun set and clouds turn pink.

Jack is nervous, twitchy. “Let's just leave.” He checks his car mirrors. “I'll buy you a Natty Light.”

“Chill, man. We came all the way out here.” I grip his shoulder. “I'm not just retrieving personal things, I'm also returning this.” I show him a .32 pistol. “It belongs to her. She never mentioned it being missing, so I'll toss it in the koi pond on the patio out back.”

Jack convulses. “Don't take a freakin' weapon inside! What if someone's in there and you use it by accident. That's not twilight anymore, that's turpitude.”

“Enough with the turpitude. You're talking manslaughter. I've never manslaughtered a woman in my life.” I twist the passenger door handle and start to step out into the night air.

“Give that to me.” Jack grabs the gun and we wrestle with it, back and forth. Until it fires. Jack grips his stomach. “I'm hit.”

“You idiot,” I say. “How can you drive us back downtown now?”

Jack coughs hard and it pops his bridge out. “You'll have to take over, pal,” he wheezes.

“Yeah, I would, it's just that my license got suspended.” I gaze over, and he slumps forward onto the steering wheel, his bulging eyes frozen. I sit there in shock, for minutes, for a half-hour. Why always me, God? This is not my fucking day. I'm just figuring out an escape plan when a prowl car sidles up alongside us, its red and blues flashing. “Was about to call you guys.”

“What just occurred here?” the older cop asks.

“My friend, he committed suicide.” I knuckle my eyes, because I should be crying.

After they get me outside, guns drawn, the female cop investigates inside the Civic with a flashlight. “Who commits suicide by shooting themself in the stomach?” she says after exiting.

“Jack was pointing it at his head, but I grabbed it away, and we fought a bit, then the gun went off.” I try my sincere expression. “I wanted to prevent a crime.”

“This looks bad,” the older cop says. “We'll need to question you downtown. Brady, call an ambulance.” She nods, and goes off to work the police radio.

“Why?” I ask. "It's a tragic accident. I'm the good guy. No?”

“Um, at best, we have a sort of moral twilight situation here. At worst—”

“Moral turpitude?”

“Worse than that.” He looks me over, gauging my threat level. “Will you just get in our back seat, no hassle, or do we need to cuff you first?”

I notice his holster for the first time. “No, no, don't tase me, bro. Nice and easy.” I glance over at my wife's, my ex-wife's house, with sadness. “Hey, do you mind if I get a few things inside to bring along?”

End

BIO: Max Talley was born in New York City and lives in Southern California. His writing has appeared in The Opiate, Atticus Review, About Place, Iron Horse Literary Review, and The Saturday Evening Post. Talley's recent books include his hippie crime novel, Peace, Love, & Haight, from Three Rooms Press in 2025, and Santa Fe Psychosis, published this year by Lazarus Media.

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