Sometimes I hate my job

Sometimes I hate my job. I’m a private investigator. I know that’s a strange job for a woman but it’s my job and I’m good at it. Sometime I might write about how I came to be a PI, but not today. Usually I like my job, but today I hate it. Today I finished a contract with Mrs. Jane (I changed her name to protect the innocent…and by that I mean to protect me against a lawsuit). Mrs. Jane hired me to find out if her husband was having an affair. While he told Mrs. Jane he was enjoying a golf weekend with his buddies once a month, Mr. Jane was enjoying Mrs. Gray. It was a simple PI investigation and I had a photocopy of the hotel registry and several pictures of Mrs. Gray and him leaving their hotel room in different outfits. While I waited in the foyer with the evidence, Mrs. Jane told Mr. Jane about her suspicion. Her plan was to give him a chance to confess the truth. If he had fessed up and agreed to end the affair she would agree to do whatever it took to restore her marriage. But if he held on to his lie she was going to bring me in, present him with the evidence, and then tell him to leave. Well, I sat there for close to forty-five minutes before that door opened and the whole time I sat there I prayed for him. I prayed that he would tell the truth. I wanted him to tell the truth because that is what Mrs. Jane wanted and I figured that if she was still willing to save her marriage it was probably worth saving. I sent my will for him to tell the truth through that closed door because other than cheating he could be one of the good guys. I may be the most naive PI that ever lived but I believe everyone should get more than one chance. So I wanted Mr. Jane to get the chance that Mrs. Jane wanted to give him. Every five minutes I would pace, stare at the door, and pray for Mr. Jane. I meant, with all my heart, every prayer I sent. At one point I remember wondering if Mr. Jane would appreciate the prayers and support he was getting from such an unlikely source as the PI who found him out. Then I remembered the York's who just a few weeks ago saw me at Manna Bagel one morning and told me how thankful they were that Mrs. York’s affair was discovered because it forced them to make some decisions that they had avoided for years. They looked so happy, so together. I wanted the Gray's to have what the York's had. So I continued to pray for Mr. Jane to tell the truth. And then I heard someone take the door handle. I watched it open expecting to see Mrs. Jane smiling. Surely they had worked it out after that much time. But it was not Mrs. Jane. It was Mr. Jane. And he was not smiling as he stormed through the foyer. He stopped in front of me where I sat and sneered at me. I slid my right hand around to my side so I could get at the gun holstered at the small of my back. But he didn’t come any closer. “How do you live with yourself?” he fumed just before he spit on me. I just sat there for I don’t know how long, with his spit on my jacket, and watched the man I had prayed for the past forty-five minutes kick open his front door and leave. And all I could think was, “sometimes I hate my job.”