Lying for Sport

“Where are you from?”

“Amber Lake.” I wasn’t.

“Oh, it’s lovely there in the fall, isn’t it? I used to drive from Carverton all the way up to Blue Hill every Sunday to visit my grandparents—before they moved down to Cedar Grove—and it was so beautiful passing through Amber Lake. I never stopped there though.”

“Mm-hmm.” Just cut my damn hair. Please.

“So what do you do?”

“I own a restaurant.” I didn’t. I worked in accounts receivable at a logistics company in Carverton. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was stable. Unfulfilling, but safe. “It’s a farm-to-market gastropub.”

“Oh my gosh, that’s so cool! I love those!”

I grinned. “Me too.” I didn’t. “We have trivia on Tuesdays, and live music on weekends. I’m thinking about adding a rotation of local craft beers, too.”

“How fun!”

There’s a tiny hair hanging on my eyelash. I wonder how long I can let it sit there before I just have to wipe it away.

“Stop by next time you’re passing through. Amber Lake is a really cool town.”

“I will, definitely.”

You won’t. Definitely.

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