She knew I made it up.
Well, maybe I was reading her mind. Her eyes flicked to the side each time she told me she believed me.
Her mouth hung by strings from her mind, incredulously puppeteered to say, "Okay."
She had asked me, directly this time, and it was difficult for me -- lying. There was a frothy pit in my stomach where the truth fermented, starting to rot. I could have made it easier, but I was scared. There were phrases that kept me from releasing both of us.
"It will hurt."
"You can't handle it."
"Maybe we can save it."
I had the words ready, but they sounded off. They felt like cold metal on my tongue, stuck there and waiting to thaw. I feared the pain of tearing them out prematurely. I feared the antithesis to my ideals, but my ideals were not reality.
I looked at her and she knew what was coming. Under the protective indifference, I could see she was angry. It was justified. I was cowardly, procrastinating the flow of truth.
I looked at my black socks and knew they were dirty from the dust on the floor. They just didn't show it. The dark colour hid the filth, but it was there.
I looked up. My jaw unclenched and my eyes burned.
"I don't want this," I said.
And again, but now relieved, she said, "Okay."
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