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Most of life is a series of pragmatic lies, thought Sandrine. “Baby, you’re better than ever,” she cooed to her husband after another lousy fuck.
"I don’t repulse you?” he jokingly queried. But fear in his eyes – if you covered his smile and only saw his eyes, nothing but fear.
She thought of his pale flabby ass bobbing up and down, his brie/chardonnay breath, about how he didn’t even try to get her off, and lied, “No no no!” He kissed her on the forehead sloppily and padded off to the bathroom to take a dump.
Later at the restaurant, the withered old lady asked, “How do you find my recipe for Shepard’s Pie?” There were tears in her eyes; she needed an affirmative answer. It was too late in her life for criticism, reflected Sandrine, and reassured, “Delicious. Better than my mother’s – but don’t tell her that!” Laughs all around, relief.
The sad acknowledgement that there is no space for truth, that it’s not worth it.
“Mommy, listen to my cello!” cried her 9 year old Erin, a chubby red head. The sound of a walrus dying… “What do you think what what what tell me!” tugging on Sandrine’s sundress. “I think that is so pretty, Erin!” she dictated extra clearly, like you do with a child.
Love was a guidance counseling gig at best – reassuring someone that their mediocrity wasn’t fatal. In its most potent lie, love was like telling someone “There, there,” as they bled to death, smiling at them all the while.
Date Written: July 16, 2003
Author: Phony Millions
Average Vote: 4.5