You always know when I’m lying.
I blush, and lower my head, and say babe, I’m a storyteller.
I’m allowed to blur the edges.
So maybe there weren’t thirteen of us. And maybe the sun wasn’t quite up.
Never let the truth cloud a good story.
And you just kiss the top of my head, slide a rollie between pursed lips, and wink at me with those blue, blue eyes.
So when I ask you, your hand places the coffee back on the table and you push your sunglasses up on your head. I can see flecks of gray at your temples that weren’t there when we were together, and you narrow your eyes at the golden light spilling on our table in the corner.
No, you’re not cold, babe….you just have doors where others have windows.
We don’t speak, and I think I’m beginning to smile.
And there’ll always be those of us who know the right knock.
Your hand is on mine on the table, and you squeeze for two long seconds.
It doesn’t mean you’re cold, darlin’.
I squeeze back, then lean forward and kiss you on the forehead anyway.
Never let the truth cloud a good friendship, I tell myself.
But I always know when you’re lying.
There’s a certain pear scented cowboy who’s been the subject of many a story of mine on Red Bubble.
Don’t worry: he’s written many a song about me.
And though it might suprise some to know this, he’s by my side most days now, with a warm laugh and open arms and a repatched friendship that’s eight years in the making, and wraps around me snugly.
Few people know you as well as an ex-boyfriend, after all.
And if you’re lucky, they’ll still love you, and kiss your forehead over coffee.
That’s pretty fucking special.