Sometimes, I lie about the way Tony died.
Not when it feels consequential- not to people I know I will have to tell the truth to eventually anyway, although i suppose I will be caught out eventually, in some sticky social situation that will make me blush and feel like a liar.
But to causal people. A shopkeeper here, a nice old lady walking her dog there.
I know, I know. The irony, hey? The irony of the woman who proclaims that you should ‘speak‘ lieing to people, not mentioning them the full truth.
But sometimes it really is just… easier.
A small part of me, it doesn’t want to scare people, doesn’t to expose them to the shock of my what has become of my life. That little old lady, walking her dog… she didn’t need to know.
And other times, I just can’t be bothered. I’m brave when I have to be. When I don’t have to be.. I won’t.
Because I get sick of the look on people’s faces, as if I’ve slapped them. I get sick of the sympathy in their eyes becoming pity. I hate the thought that I know they would be thinking, because I used to think it too. In fact, most days, I still do.
What did you do?
Lori, what did you do?