And I take a moment to think about it as my eyes slide away from his caustic gaze. He's serious when he asks me this question and maybe it catches me a little off guard. Usually when people ask this question they want to know what you do, what you like, what you listen to. And most of the time they don't really care unless they're pursuing something like a romance. Even then it's just good small talk. Besides, who am I really? I don't think anybody's anybody, not really. Except for maybe if you're under the pretense that we truthfully are what we eat, in which case I'd be a Ritalin pill and two eggs, over easy.
Him and I, we're sitting in the corner of a bookstore off 5th and Baltimore in the Walldorf District, or what some call the French District, where nobody's really French but the cafe's sell baguettes and one of the boutiques has a cut-out of the Eiffle tower pasted to their front window. Nobody puts much effort into things these days. They don't have to.
I had told him I was 18. I wasn't. I told him I was Julia. It wasn't. I told him I loved him too. I couldn't tell you why. I didn't. I don't know. Maybe I did.
I had told him I was 18. I wasn't. I told him I was Julia. It wasn't. I told him I loved him too. I couldn't tell you why. I didn't. I don't know. Maybe I did.
I tell him, I don't know. I tell him this because in all likelihood it's probably the only thing I know for sure is true. Anymore, when people ask me questions like this I just make something up to entertain them. I don't soul-search inside myself because I've never thought of myself as more than a composite of the rest of the world, a product of some sort. I figure, if they really knew themselves, they'd know me too. Anymore, it's easier to just make somebody up than to define the intricacies that comprise my whole and separate me from the masses. I'd have to know alot more about the world than just my perspective of it to determine anything for sure, and anyways, who's to say I'm who I say I am? People change, so nobody's ever really who they say they are. Not for long anyway. Besides, by the time I've figured myself out, somebody's fucked me up good and everything's changed.
And he tells me, "I think I deserve to know."
I don't think he does. I don't think he deserves anything.
I'm a liar, I say. It's the truth, which is funny when you think about it, and it feels weird saying it but his green eyes don't look hurt by any fallacy on my behalf and it bothers me so I tell him what he wants to hear so that maybe he'll shut up and leave, or so that maybe I can at least get some reaction. I don't know why he's here to begin with. I didn't invite him.
Then it dawns on me that maybe he likes the lies better. Reality's not a pretty place. People disappear under headlines and girls fall in love with other men. Maybe he needs the escape of spending the night inside somebody that doesn't really exist. Maybe he knew the truth all along.
Fuck. What is wrong with people these days?
"You're a bitch." And he says it like I should be offended, but he sat there moments ago asking who I am, and now he thinks telling me the answer solves the problem. Truth is, he's probably right. Lot of good it does the both of us now.
Me and him, we dated for about a month. It was fun at first, but only because it was wrong. I met him at a busy bar and grill on game night and had noticed he was married. I inquired about the ring and he said, "Yeah, what about it?"
So I asked him, "How married?"
Twenty minutes later we were fucking in the bathroom stall and the manager was knocking on the door telling us we needed to leave or he'd call the police. And it was supposed to be a one night thing. Nothing that lasted. Just, for one night in my life I wanted to be a whore like everyone else. It sounds silly now. Four weeks later he was talking about divorce and I was getting ready to graduate and didn't have time to deal with that shit. Half way through the fifth week he found a picture of me in the local paper with a couple of girls from the track team at a fundraiser for our school. The caption listed us by our first initial, last name, and age. The picture was of my profile, so it wouldn't have been a problem if I wasn't wearing the same thing in the picture as what I had left his house in the morning it was taken. His hoodie. With his last name. I could have tried to lie, say it wasn't me, but it would have been useless. I was caught, with red letters and scarlet hands.
I don't think he does. I don't think he deserves anything.
I'm a liar, I say. It's the truth, which is funny when you think about it, and it feels weird saying it but his green eyes don't look hurt by any fallacy on my behalf and it bothers me so I tell him what he wants to hear so that maybe he'll shut up and leave, or so that maybe I can at least get some reaction. I don't know why he's here to begin with. I didn't invite him.
Then it dawns on me that maybe he likes the lies better. Reality's not a pretty place. People disappear under headlines and girls fall in love with other men. Maybe he needs the escape of spending the night inside somebody that doesn't really exist. Maybe he knew the truth all along.
Fuck. What is wrong with people these days?
"You're a bitch." And he says it like I should be offended, but he sat there moments ago asking who I am, and now he thinks telling me the answer solves the problem. Truth is, he's probably right. Lot of good it does the both of us now.
Me and him, we dated for about a month. It was fun at first, but only because it was wrong. I met him at a busy bar and grill on game night and had noticed he was married. I inquired about the ring and he said, "Yeah, what about it?"
So I asked him, "How married?"
Twenty minutes later we were fucking in the bathroom stall and the manager was knocking on the door telling us we needed to leave or he'd call the police. And it was supposed to be a one night thing. Nothing that lasted. Just, for one night in my life I wanted to be a whore like everyone else. It sounds silly now. Four weeks later he was talking about divorce and I was getting ready to graduate and didn't have time to deal with that shit. Half way through the fifth week he found a picture of me in the local paper with a couple of girls from the track team at a fundraiser for our school. The caption listed us by our first initial, last name, and age. The picture was of my profile, so it wouldn't have been a problem if I wasn't wearing the same thing in the picture as what I had left his house in the morning it was taken. His hoodie. With his last name. I could have tried to lie, say it wasn't me, but it would have been useless. I was caught, with red letters and scarlet hands.
Nobody's who they say they are. At least not for long.
And now he sat in front of me wanting to be able to distinguish fantasy from reality, facts from fiction. Unfortunately, that ship had sailed weeks ago. Somewhere along the lines I probably messed this man's life up something good. Down the road a while, maybe even tonight, when he looks at his wife he'll see a lie where truth used to be. Eventually he'll have to decide which realm he wants to exist in, and both are going to suck.
He says, "Just tell me your name. Tell me you're real name. Just, please?" And he pauses for a moment. "Tell me who you really are."
I felt bad then, for this guy. It was too easy for me to steal him from his world, and for no reason. "I'm Julia." And this time, when I told him who I was, I wasn't lying.
And now he sat in front of me wanting to be able to distinguish fantasy from reality, facts from fiction. Unfortunately, that ship had sailed weeks ago. Somewhere along the lines I probably messed this man's life up something good. Down the road a while, maybe even tonight, when he looks at his wife he'll see a lie where truth used to be. Eventually he'll have to decide which realm he wants to exist in, and both are going to suck.
He says, "Just tell me your name. Tell me you're real name. Just, please?" And he pauses for a moment. "Tell me who you really are."
I felt bad then, for this guy. It was too easy for me to steal him from his world, and for no reason. "I'm Julia." And this time, when I told him who I was, I wasn't lying.
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