She looked over at me. I couldn't avoid catching her eye, even though I had made a point of talking about the birds and squirrels all afternoon. Babbling, trying not to leave a gap. Trying to kill time. But it was futile. I had figured it would be. Oh well, I tried. She slid over toward me, on the bench. The breeze blew. The sun was shining.

As our lips met, I wondered whether she could tell. Surely she could. I'm a terrible liar, or so my friends have always told me. But doesn't everyone get told that? What about the lies that really count? When someone absolutely needs to hide the truth.

Terrible lies in terrible situations. I knew it was my fault that we were here at all. And as our faces separated and we looked at each other again, what was she seeing exactly? She could tell. I knew she could tell. So now what? Verbal non-communication, probably.