We’re lying in bed, my front to her back, and the lights from the city below making strange patterns across the walls. I’m playing with a strand of her hair, rolling it across my finger and she makes small circles on my wrist.
We don’t really talk. I noticed this about us. We talk only if we have something worth mentioning. Strangely, I’m not bothered because of the endless silence stretching between us. Maybe because I’m somewhat feeling guilty about lying to her and in this way I avoid telling her more lies. I scoff inwardly at the thought. Who am I kidding? I don’t have a conscience.
It’s actually strange how at ease I feel around her. She makes me feel almost normal, and that it’s one of the other reason why I don’t regret telling her the wrong name. The fact that she doesn’t know wh
