That Morthos Stare writes:
Memories and love.
It’s a funny combination.
There is this girl I know. Know well, if you catch my drift... We’ve been close, on and off, buying into each other’s fantasy. And she has this memory, a recollection of how we met. Common friend’s place; playing some insipid boardgame, just the three of us. She and I were sitting next to each other, joking and doing that ‘thing’ where people talk without asking direct questions.
Typical Kiwi flirting...
Anyway, I throw the die, get a six and throw my hands in the air (at the unfairness of it all, you know) before bringing my hand down on hers.
Where, after a smug grin, it stays.
Let’s just say that later that night we ended up kissing... And, well, other stuff.
She tells me later that I did it deliberately. I immediately agree with her. Which leads to more of the ‘other stuff.’ Later she tells our friends the story (with me sheepishly nodding away in the background) until, within months, it becomes ‘the’ story of how ‘we got together.’
Which isn’t true. My hand landed on hers, alright, but it was natural clumsiness (with associated good consequences). But I, insecure enough to think that this was the be-all and end-all of the relationship, couldn’t let her think that.
And it was only a little lie, wasn’t it?
The problem was, weeks later, it wasn’t. More and more people became party to it. So when it became ‘the’ moment it went from minor to major.
So I did what I could to rectify the situation.
Perhaps, I rationalised, I had intended to touch her hand. Maybe it was me that was at fault here. I couldn’t admit to my gambit, so I was downplaying it. The lie wasn’t our story, the lie was not allowing the story to be true.
So the lie became truth and truth, oh so tritely, became fiction.
Isn’t it strange how it only takes a few moments to become convinced.
Love and memory, eh?