Full-Baked

I know what I did wrong. I lied. It started out so well. The first one was so easy.

‘I turn invisible on Wednesdays.’

Trust me to find a guy who was gullible enough to believe that. He said it was the way I looked at security cameras that made him believe me. No one without a dangerous secret would do that, he said.

And I grasped at that straw. Should’ve stopped. Right there. But no. I had to milk it for all it was worth.

I said, ‘Yes. There are mafia plants in the police who want to make sure I no longer exist.’

So I had to disappear every Wednesday, going off at dawn and grounding myself in a cafe or a cheap hotel just so no one he knew would see me. I had to whisper to him through the phone, pretending I was on top-secret missions. Lies over silly, dirty lies.

And then, in spite of him being a moron that way, I fell in love with him. So there was a final story. In the line of duty, I was accidentally hit by a friendly bullet. It grazed my forehead, but affected the part of my brain that made me invisible. I spent a week out of town, supposedly in a secret hospital. And then they let me go because I wasn’t any more use. I was told to guard my secrets with my life, or else. I cut my forehead carefully and came home with a bandage on it.

Then we were happy. Then we married. Then we started to spend the rest of our lives together. And it’s lovely.

But then, once in a while, when he thinks I’m not looking, he gives me this glance, so full of love and a hint of pity. That I’m broken and he’s so sad he can’t fix me. I fucking hate that.