“There is something that you have to understand about me, if you’re going to write my story,” she said. The pause was long enough that he almost spoke, even though he could feel that there was something she wanted, no needed, to say to him.
“I’m a compulsive liar.”
“Then how can I tell your story?” he asked.
The cigarette clutched between her fingers trembled and she flicked her eyes away from his. She let her shoulders slouch forward and rested one elbow on her knee with her chin on her hand. Ash fell unnoticed to the carpet. Without thought, she flicked the cigarette then took a slow drag. The smoke seeped from her lips in a thin haze. Shrugging and tapping her finger tip against the cigarette filter, she briefly looked at him.
“That’s something that you’re going to have to figure out.”
“I want the book to be accurate. People want to know who you are,” he said.
“That’s not my problem. If you want to write your book, you’ll have to accept that as the only unclouded fact that I will give you.”
The fan hummed. Traffic rumbled by on the road just outside the open window. Looking at her, he said nothing. What was there to say to that?
Getting up, she ran her fingers through her hair, crushed the cigarette out in a red glass cup with a candle mostly melted to nothing and turned from him. He watched go into the other room. Saying nothing, she slipped past the curtain that separated the living room from the kitchen. In her house, there were only two doors. Both led outside. The rest of the doorways sported heavy curtains. Like everything in her house, they had little in common.
Was he supposed to follow her?