Carlos Typhoon

flash fiction

—HE LIED

Yeah, I’m not looking for anything serious either—he said. 

It wasn’t a lie—but it wasn’t necessarily the truth. He hadn’t been looking for anything for a while now, but he did still hold out hope for something real, something true, something deep. She wasn’t lying either—she was just wrong about not wanting something serious—she just didn’t know it yet. 

Why shouldn’t we be able to have our cake and eat it too—she said. 

It was an honest question, which she needed an honest answer to. Sex with no strings—it seemed like the perfect arrangement. Who wouldn’t like that. What could be simpler. Why shouldn’t it work. These were critical questions, needing critical answers. But again—still—she just didn’t know it yet, and so even to herself it came out as a rhetorical question—which is exactly how he took it too.

I don’t need to put a label on this. I just want to keep seeing you—he said.

It was the God’s honest truth. He didn’t care what they called it—he just wanted her to be in his life. And if these were the terms—then so be it. If this was the deal he had to make—then he’d do it. He didn’t want to call this love. He knew he needed to think of it as something else. And she knew she didn’t care what they called it either—she just loved the fact that he really seemed to want her, but didn’t seem to need her.

So……I went on a date last night—she said.

It was truly tough—as hard for her to say as it was for him to hear. And the fact that they had fucked so good and hard and sweet the afternoon before didn’t escape her—nor the fact that she was right back at his house again this morning. It was all the answers she needed to all the questions she had had. And she hoped he saw this too—which he did. He saw it—and he remembered that deal, remembered those terms. He saw it—and he stepped right over it, carefully, confidently, making sure not to get any of it stuck on the bottom of his shoe.

No, I don’t really want to meet your parents—he said.

It was an honest sentiment, delivered with a hollow sincerity—it came off like a joke. And when she laughed at it, he laughed too—both examples of genuine laughter. Under different circumstances, of course, he would have loved to have met her parents—but under these circumstances the idea seemed outright preposterous to him. He ended up meeting them anyway—of course. All the while, that laughter of hers persisted—that amused spirit of hers—that smitten smile—that satisfied radiance—that joyousness—jubilation—glee.

I love you—she said.

It was a truth that erupted from deep inside her. She felt it—like she had never felt before. She meant it—like she had never meant before. It was real, it was true, it was deep—to her. It was honest and joyous and momentous—to her. It was serious and sincere—beautiful and ethereal—absolutely perfect—to her. But to him—well, to him, they were just words.

I love you too—