Lies I told a Woman

I heard some lies were only lies because you choose not to believe in them and some truths were only truths at certain times. But if you were to say something true in that moment, does that relativity make it any less truthful? Is it a lie if in a moment of drunkenness you turn to a perfect stranger and say to him, "I love you"? Doesn't the feeling of peace and goodwill exist in you in that one transcendent instant?

If in a moment of lust, our heat fueled by the union of our bodies, I look at a woman I'd normally find plain and I say to her "you are beautiful" is it really a lie?

She seemed to think so but I didn't want to argue that point with her. We'd met in the library the Friday before the break. I was trying to study for an Eco exam and she had a psych paper to submit. She had one of those strange and unusual names that you hear once and quickly forget because it sounds weird. One of those names that your parents usually gave you a nickname for but you grow up and start reusing to look more adult.

I was bored and couldn't focus on my notes. There was something so oppressive about the silence of the library at that time of night and her movements drew my attention. I said "hi." She smiled easily and laughed in soft, low laughs at my weak jokes. We ended up in bed.

I didn't think she'd be so caught up over the statement. It didn't seem like such a big thing to have said, giving the activity we were engaged in. I call flowers "beautiful" and birds "beautiful"; and dancers and actresses and geniuses. They are. I'd wanted her to feel good about herself and the easiest way I knew was to adorn her with compliments. I didn't expect her to seem so wounded and stung. She asked me what I meant by it and I didn't know how to explain it to her.

It made me think that maybe I didn't know what I'd meant. Over the week, she called. Her name was Mertella. I got tense. I didn't want her to know how unsure I'd become over a little white lie. But I couldn't get it out of my mind.

— Ikè Nwankpa