'Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire' by Mark Bird

On the same bench, where we’d first kissed on a freshly-mown grass day many years ago, I
suggested we sit. It was June again, probably our 20th one but the sky was grey and heavy on
our shoulders. It was supposed to be summer.

Our bright-eyed and loyal Golden Retriever sat at our feet, nuzzling her all-seeing nose fairly
between our damp laps. She knew.

You told me, for the millionth time, how you’d stolen a rounders bat from school back then,
so you could tempt me to the park for a game, for a date, because you fancied me so much,
before burying your hollow laughter against my ever-changing ribs. Again.

Eye contact, once abundant, now absent, gave me strength.

For where once were vibrations of love as your head met my ribs, now was just weight and
acute irritation.

That’s when I blurted out the words, “It’s not you, it’s me.”

I lied.

The lie that you’d be waiting for.

For years.