A Gathering of Stories Shorter Than My Norm

Why do you Pathologically Lie?

I couldn't tell if he was lying or not. Most of the time it didn't matter; the things he said were of little importance, like whether he liked his sandwich at lunch or if he failed the chemistry test.

This time, though, I really wondered.

This time, it mattered.

Do you care? I wondered, looking into his deep eyes. They were full of humor- a sign that he was being sarcastic.

But, then again, they were usually full of humor.

My hands formed fists as they grabbed the fabric of the perfect white linen tablecloth in front of me. I was suddenly aware of how windy it was outside; the fabric fought against my fists and my dress fluttered against my legs.

I hate dresses. I thought to myself, still lost in those potentially lying eyes with so much depth to them.

It's way too easy to get lost in your eyes.

"Ave?" he asked. I noticed something while lost in his eyes that led me back to the surface.

Worry.

"Sorry," I said immediately, because I always say sorry. He laughed.

But there was the worry, surrounded by nervousness.

More silence.

Again, getting lost in his eyes.

I ignored the worry and nervous energy, even the humor, allowing them to surround me in their warmth...

"You're not gonna respond?"

He was fidgety now.

I was guilty now.

But what if you're joking around again? That annoying voice. It's always pointing things out that I want to ignore. You're always lying. Why do you pathologically lie?

Another voice- my voice, I think, though I'm not sure: Because he's a joker. I wanted to ignore it, because I knew what was coming next, but you can't ignore something in your head.

And that's why you love him.

There was hurt in his eyes now.

It came in the form of daggers that stabbed me, waking me from the dream of his maze-like eyes.

He started to move.

Away.

My body didn't approve.

Why do you pathologically lie?

I thought as I lunged across the table and grabbed his arm with both hands.

He paused, surprise in his eyes, as he stared at my hands. My pathetically pale hands.

"Ave?"

He asked again. With his soft voice that people generally tend to not hear.

To me, at this moment, it was loud.

"I like you, Ave."

But you're lying. That voice argued.

Who cares? My voice answered.

In response to his statement, my body once again reacted.

My left knee found the bench where I was once sitting.

My right knee found the tabletop.

My left hand also found the tabletop, steadying my somewhat-dazed body.

My right hand found the back of his head, the fingers climbing into his hair of their own accord.

My face leaned forward and found his. . .

As my mouth searched for his.

And when it found it, it communicated how I felt.

And then we were one, no longer at a picnic table among his relatives on the Fourth of July.