TELLING A LIE


“I love you, Willie,” she said.

And though the words were there, the inflections, the emphasis, the pose, even the eyes all correct – it wasn’t the truth.

He didn’t see it; he bought the whole package because that’s what he wanted from her. She looked at his face from behind the carefully arranged intensity in her eyes and wished she meant it.

Willy was a nice guy in a long list of nice guys that Claire wanted to love. The truth was she loved the idea of love more than any of them specifically. It was like a picture puzzle she kept trying to fill in with all the wrong pieces. She could always get the framework, the sky, the trees -- but not the people – not the lovers in the center.

She was tired and saw she’d let the pose slip. He said, “Claire?” She looked up and saw a big question mark where his nose should be.

Claire got up from the worn red hassock and took the two steps that would put her close enough to touch his face. She could smooth that look away with her fingertips. But when she reached up, she touched his eyebrows with her thumbs and then slowly drew them down, closing his eyelids so that she wouldn’t have to see his eyes.

He shivered at her touch, but let her do it. And then he said, “I’ll always love you, Claire.”

But she didn’t believe him.