The white man walked into the building, saw the light of the confessional box turned green and decided to approach it, knowing no one would be inside. It was late in the evening, about a quarter past eight. He should have been home by now. Matter of fact, that was where he was enroute to when he'd decided to stop by here and make bare his soul to someone who might listen.
The interior of the confessional box was small and dark with a mesh separating his section from the other; there was a chair inside. The man closed the door behind him and sat down on the chair; above his head, the green light automatically turned red. There was the sound of a man entering the other confessional; the white man couldn't make out much of the black preacher's features through the mesh but could hear him clearly when he spoke.
"What can I do for you, white boy?" asked the preacher gruffly.
The white man swallowed and then cleared his throat before speaking. "Sir, I've come ... I've come to confess."
"I can see that, can't I, white boy," the preacher spoke arrogantly at him, making the white man cringe in his chair. "Or else what would your white boy ass be doing in here. Go on with your talk, boy. Time is money."
The man interlocked his hands together as if in prayer, when actually he was struggling to calm his nerves.
"My name is Harry," he began, "and I'm here to make a confession. It's about my wife. Her name is Jill. She's very pretty. We've been married two years now, no kids yet. Recently something's happened to us that ... well, it's sort of changed our lives."
"The fuck is it, boy? Speak like you've got a tongue."
