I lied to her about the dog, such a blithe lie too, told with no hesitation or compunction. She accepted it without question, once I’d embellished the narrative and killed the dissent instilled by her own perception.

‘How did you see it?’

‘I’m driving, you’re a passenger, drivers see things on the road that passengers don’t because they’re not concentrating on it’. I could see the anxiety and doubt ebb visibly in her features, I’d saved her world, shored up the walls of her reality with fiction. She accepted my specious claims of heightened sensory acuity because it was a lie couched in the familiar language of all the lies she accepted.

Years later, she looked me up, by then I think she regarded me with a certain pity, or at least as someone she could exercise her intellectual prowess upon. Whatever her motive, she pressed her narrative with a well worn flong, to her I was bitter and resentful but now she understood the pain.

She could no longer see, her world had been arranged neatly and without clutter so that she could navigate it without the need for the sight she’d discarded. I should’ve wept that night, tears are appropriate for departed friends.

~ by deadspidereye on May 17, 2015.

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