5 october

“It’s okay to lie,” he points out. “It’s creative writing.”

I spin my chair around to watch him tossing a baseball up in the air, slow and American. Impatiently awaiting progress.

“You think that’s what I do here? Just make stuff up?”

He catches the ball, turns to look at me, balancing puzzled and amused—though whether for my entertainment or his own amusement, it’s hard to tell. There’s no clear eye-rolling.

“So, you mean everything you write’s true?”

I roll my own eyes (easier that way), turn back, pretend to type.

Toss, catch, toss, catch.

Realizing that I am typing ‘toss, catch, toss, catch,’ I turn back.

“There is truth to it, you know, even if all the facts aren’t really real. Otherwise, nobody’d read it.”

“Like fantasy stories. Vampires. Harry Potter. That’s why they’re not popular.” Toss, catch.

Heaved sigh, caught.

“No, but there’s real in them, right? Right.”

“Sorry, were we arguing? Should I be sitting up for this?”

Exasperated, I spin, face a blank wall. Toss, catch. Turn, type.

“'It’s okay to tell the truth,’ he lies.”