Bad — Liar

You’d learned lying young — a useful muscle, like curling your tongue. You told your mother you loved her casseroles. Told your boss the report was almost done. Told yourself you’d call back. Small deceptions, soft as moths. You became fluent in the grammar of omission.

You remembered the man’s face before he turned the corner. How he’d said, “Trust me,” and you had, even though trust was just another word you’d borrowed. You remembered the watch catching light one last time. How you hadn’t touched it. How you hadn’t needed to. Bad Liar

Marlow stared at you for a long, dry minute. Then he pushed back his chair, gathered the photograph, and walked out. You’d learned lying young — a useful muscle,

“You were there,” he said.

You shrugged. “I’m never there.”