Telling Tales - John Fetto

Tate could lie with the best of them. He’d know just when to bend the tale. You just watched the eyes, watched when they sharpened, watch when they dulled over in disbelief. He actually enjoyed it when they figured out he was lying, when they finally understood that he didn’t give a damn what anyone thought about what he said. Sometimes their lips would quiver, as if they were about to say something but thought better of it. The braves would loosen their hands, but still wouldn’t do anything with them, just let them hang loose at their sides, not even making a fist, or more than clenching a few fingers before they let go. They’d look at him and think better of it, and then their eyes would do that little trick where they turned away, not wanting to see Tate right in front of him, turning, like they wanted to swivel back all the way and roll down his head. Sometimes they’d gulp too. Their mouth we be dray as Tate loomed over them, letting the silence dig deep as a grave. And then and only then would he break the spell with a dumb question, something he knew they’d never be able to answer truthfully.

“You think I’m bullshitting, don’t you?”

“No,” they would say, always that weak, “no,’ even when Tate was lying through his teeth.