This might have been yet another lie. A trip to Paris to see a friend he did not know. She left a note on the pillow. “Borrowed your blue suitcase. Gone for two days, to see my friend M.”

The pillow smelled of her. Sweat and lavender. He stared at the empty flute of champagne which had rolled under the bed. She was a little drunk last night. She could not stop laughing as they made love. It made him uncomfortable. She had dipped his penis into the champagne flute and had taken him in her mouth. And then she had made fun of his tummy. Soft and wobbly. “I like it” she laughed. He woke up thinking he needed to do something about it. Since he met her a month ago, he had been pretending he loved champagne as much as she did. He did not. He preferred bear. Another lie. Thinking of her made him hard and sad.

He had tried to peek into her past and her life. It was like looking through a foggy window. He would look deep into her eyes, ask questions, but she would laugh, kiss him, and talk about where they would go together. Venice. Barcelona. He insisted and she would draw him close to her, her body warm and tense, and he would drop his questions for her embrace, get deep into her soft caves, his voice silenced by her tongue dancing in his mouth.  


But this morning, as his body missed her, his mind was clear and focused. “She is lying”. Another friend who needed her. Another lie.  He could picture his blue suitcase. Wide open in a small room in Paris with a small window. She was naked. She was always walking around naked. Shameless. He always worried that neighbours could see her through the window.  She did not care. He decided he would confront her when she came back. He played their discussion in his head, adjusted the dialogue. He was strong, to the point. He would not let her distract him.

-‘A friend, in Paris?’

-‘An old friend, before I met you’

-‘You never talk about her…invite her’

-‘Yes, I might’

Lies. More lies. He paused for a minute. Did it really matter? Her lies. The places where he was not welcome. What he wanted was the warmth of her body. Her body was alive. Intensely alive. Truthful.

 He took a long shower, washing her off his body. He noticed she had once more left his shampoo bottle open. It annoyed him. He would have to tell her one day.