The Art of a Lie

Fiction

With her long pinkie fingernail, Elizabeth touched the handle of her empty coffee cup and spun it.

It wobbled a little, but rotated, making an odd, hollow noise from the contact with the glass table.

Her robe was open down to her navel, the first time she had worn it in Leighton’s apartment.

He had suggested it.

“I want you to be comfortable here,” he had said, and she appreciated that.

“I’d love to watch you paint somet-”

“No,” Leighton said abruptly, louder than Elizabeth would have thought necessary in an apartment twice the size.

“Wow, well thanks for thinking it over,” she said, stopping the wobbling coffee cup and starting to stand.

Leighton reached for her hand. He didn’t want to pat it like she was a puppy or a child. 

Elizabeth looked down at a splotch of blue paint where his index finger met his hand.

He had obviously painted during the night or early morning then crawled back in bed with her.

“Please, I’m sorry. Sit down. I’ll tell you a story.”

Elizabeth thought about it, closed her robe, belted it too tightly, and sat down.