Listen for the Lie

by Amy Tintera

It’s an apology chicken, for my boyfriend. It’s like that engagement chicken. The one women make to persuade their boyfriends to propose? Except this is a “sorry I didn’t tell you I’m the prime suspect in my friend’s murder” chicken.

(A side effect of being accused of murder is that you spend a lot of time thinking about it. You get used to it.)

On the plus side, I have more time to look for a new place while I wait for the inevitable. Just this morning I found a very promising one-bedroom with no income requirements. It looks like a dump in the pictures, and the landlord asked to see a picture of my feet when I emailed, but, hey. It’s cheap.

“Are you drunk?” “Lucy, it is two o’clock in the afternoon. Of course I’m not drunk.” She pauses. “I’m merely slightly tipsy.”

“You do know that it’s tacky to tell me I’m your favorite when you have three grandchildren?” “We both know that Ashley and Brian are assholes.” “I think we’re supposed to pretend to like them anyway.” “Well. I can’t have a birthday party with only the assholes.”

I imagine, briefly, inviting Nathan to come to Plumpton, Texas, with me. I wonder whether that would be the thing that finally gets him to dump me. Visiting the scene of the crime is probably a bridge too far, even for him.

“Wait, are you sick?” “Not that I know of, but my friends are dropping like flies, so really, it’s only a matter of time.” “That’s the spirit.”

Another article described Ben as having “boyish good looks,” which had only made me hate him more. I’ve never liked men who can be described as having boyish good looks. They’re always smug.