Truth is Cringe

I’m not half as bad

as Quinn tells her friends.

Phone to her ear,

she spills us—

I overhear:

I'm a downgrade over her ex,

a puzzle I can't solve.

She has no sharp words

from years ago

in that stale basement, 

sweaty sex—

her lips quivered then, 

now they flap.

Some days lift,

others sink.

We eat at a winery.

"Secondhand" plays

through speakers.

Dim lights

reveal the rippling lake.

We sit, but my knees knock.

She sips wine,

I swirl my glass,

drunk on her kiss.

Cheesy—

truth is cringe,

but sweet.

I go quiet, sipping slowly.

She tilts her head,

one eye narrowed.

"What is it?"

I exhale.

"What is it with you?"

Disgust in my voice.

She sets her glass down,

wraps up her red hair.

"I don't follow."

"You tell me you love me,

then tell your friend you hate me."

I drain my glass.

She laughs.

"This is funny?"

My eyes crinkle.

"No," she says,

hands up, hands down.

"What then?"

She tucks her bangs.

"We're working on a book—"

"A character?"

I palm my head.

"I'm so stupid."

"I wouldn't go that far," she says.

"You could have asked me, dear."

I reach for her hand.

"I'm so sorry."

"Is that why you've been distant?"

I scratch my neck. 

"Yes."

"Don't be jealous when our child arrives."

I spit out wine.

"Did you say 'child'?"

I wipe my mouth.

I see her mouth move,

but her words blur.

Happiness is cheesy, 

but beautiful.

By Andy Cooper

From: United States

X: AC0040