I knew the question before she even asked it.
She was just trying to process everything, and I understood, but I was tired; exhausted from justifying my decision again and again, trying to find the proper explanation to appease her.
If divorce were my client, and she was the target market, I was failing miserably at my job.
I knew the question was coming, yet I still couldn’t seem to find the answer she wanted to hear. Being a writer was working against me. It suddenly made her wonder about my ability to deceive.
Advertising was close, but it wasn’t fiction. She couldn’t see the difference.
To her, being a writer meant I was a grand and professional liar.
I was sitting at my desk in our home-office chain-smoking; she was standing outside the door, just out of sight. How do you talk to someone when you can’t even see one another?
She asked the question, merely a disconnected voice emanating from the hallway.
All the cards, letters and poems professing an undying love—was any of it true, or just my innate talent for bullshit?
I sat quietly for a moment, trying to think of the right thing to say. Instead, I told the truth.
I told her, perhaps, I was writing what I wished were true.
She asked me the question, and I answered—poorly.
Perhaps this wasn’t the right night to tell her I found a place. Maybe I’d wait to tell her I’d be moving out at the end of the week.
Is postponing the truth the same as lying?
I did it for ten years.