The moment of truth

This is a post for The Tenth Daughter of Memory.


He truly believed he wasn't doing anything wrong.

Or perhaps he was successfully convincing himself that he wasn't doing anything wrong.
After all, it was nothing physical.

Maybe he just had skewed morals.

"I miss you too," would be the reply he'd give through the receiver.
He'd get up early for the long-distance calls,
faithfully write back to the love letters from afar,
and schedule Skype dates around the chaos that was his life abroad.

But then, there was 'the other woman'.

Not that anything had really happened that could classify her as 'the other woman.'

She was just a friend, of course.

They'd meet up in their drunken hazes and dance together,
he'd text her whilst intoxicated then stumble over to her house with the excuse of borrowing a movie, shout her shots when they just happened to bump into each at the same time and place as usual, and look after her when things got a bit too much.

But then as the nights carried on and the memories became blurred, so did the line.

The joking turned to flirting, the smiling to gazing, the dancing became a little closer.
She occupied more and more of his thoughts until he found himself counting down until he'd see her again.

And when he told her he missed her too, he wasn't quite sure which girl was on the receiving end of his white lies anymore.