Lie to Me

A door opens. A distraught woman enters clutching at her leather jacket. Something has happened to her. She drops her shoes and quietly tip-toes toward the bathroom, careful not to wake anyone. Upon seeing her broken face she weakens at the knees and sits down on the toilet-seat. She spots a hole in her stocking and in a burst of frustration and anger rips open a white gash in the black fabric. Screaming within, tears flowing and with an uncontrollable urge to flee her skin she clutches her arm. That night she doesnt sleep. Instead, her hand traces the outline of the man she loves, caressing him an inch away from his skin, his eyes closed, sleeping. The following days are spent trying to escape the inevitable confrontation. A confrontation that her oblivious boyfriend clearly is unaware of. Soaping her already chafed pink hands, cleaning, organizing, talking to friends, she tries everything to relieve the burden she carries. Finally the moment comes. That moment that she had to know would come the second she pushed the key into the keyhole of the door. The moment that was created long before the door opened. Whatever that moment was, this moment is when the weight on her shoulders alight.