Make a Liar

"You think you're so goddamn special, so different from the rest of us. But you're not," she said, leaning against the kitchen counter. Her white legs shone in the darkness, bare underneath the old dark t-shirt three times her size. It had belong to one of her past lovers, long forgotten. She folded her arms across her chest as he walked toward her, the dried mud caked on his boots flaking off, leaving a trail she'll have to clean up later.  Her dark curly hair, crazed from the humidity fell haphazardly past her shoulders. Her dark eyes never left him as he walked to the side of her to open a cupboard. "You're just as afraid as the rest of us," she said. "You're no goddamn better."

He pulled out a pint sized mason jar out of the cupboard, not finding any clean glasses. "Alright. What am I afraid of, my dear?" he asked without looking at her. He filled the jar half full with the cheap whiskey he knew she hated. "You're afraid of getting hurt," she said trying to catch his eye. He scratched his face, itchy with three days worth of growth and took a swig. The whiskey burned the whole way down, hitting his gut with that familiar lurch. He turned to her, looking her in the eye.

"I promised I'd never hurt you. But darlin', you're fixing to make a liar out of me."

Love you.
Mean it.