Lies.

Length: Short

Genre: Angst, Drama

Now Playing: Penomeco - L.I.E

Irene's a liar, and Seulgi knows it.

It's a testament to Irene's ability to lie that Seulgi had wanted so desperately to believe her for the longest time. She's always been good at it. It's about finding the right words, the right tone of voice, the right way to say all the wrong things. Because that's what it is. Seulgi knows it better than anyone. And worst of all is how she believes she's getting away with it. How she believes so very much that she's in the clear. That Seulgi doesn't know a thing. And a part of Seulgi wishes that were true. She wishes she were still oblivious. She wishes in some small way that she did not know Irene so well, the ins and outs of her kaleidoscopic personality, her ups and her downs, all she had ever been. She wished she was ignorant to it all. Because that was less sad than the truth.

But she knows it all. Every last lie from . When they're both at lectures during the day and Seulgi texts her and says they should grab a meal tonight, a small one, nothing too fancy. Somewhere around the corner. Somewhere they've been before. Maybe get a burger. Maybe sit by the window and watch the rain run from the arcades in dappled distortions of light as if seen through bad glass. Maybe watch the night go by together. As they used to do. And then Irene texts her back. She says she's really sorry but she's busy. She's got this essay due in and there's a bunch of background reading she's got to do and she really wants to go eat but she's just going to have to grab something from the library's lunchroom instead. I'm really really sorry babe. I don't know what time I'll finish. Maybe around seven. Maybe eight. And I'll be too tired to do much of anything after that. Maybe we could snuggle up and watch a movie or something like that. But I don't have time for a meal. And Seulgi says okay. That's fine. She apologises. She says I'm sorry Irene. I'm sorry for bothering you.

Or when Irene goes out first thing on a Saturday morning. She's going for a get-together with her buddies from equestrian. They used to meet on Wednesdays but Irene says they've changed it now. They've changed it to half past eight in the morning on a Saturday. And she's got to go. She can't miss them. She barely sees them anymore. Imagine if she didn't go. Imagine that, Seulgi. Imagine if I didn't see them. What would they think of me. They'd think I'm making excuses. They'd think I'm purposely avoiding. And I wouldn't want them thinking that. So I guess I've got to go. But I'll be back in a few hours. Just after midday probably. Don't bother waking yourself up. You'll just make yourself tired later. Get some rest babe. But Seulgi wakes up every Saturday morning anyway. Just before eight. And she goes downstairs and Irene's there in the bathroom doing her makeup and she stands there in the doorway twiddling her thumbs and playing with her hair and she asks Irene to not go. Do you have to? Just stay for once. Irene says I'm sorry. They're expecting me. I'll be back soon. And Seulgi knows if she stands there and says okay it'll all start to unwind, it's all going to start a long motion where the threads of their bond begin slowly to unravel, it's all going to go downhill from there. And there's no good end in sight for that and she knows it and soon Irene will know it and she wants with all her power to say stop. Look at what you're doing. I know it. You know it. Stop ing me around and come clean, Irene. But instead she fakes a smile and says okay. I love you. See you soon.

Or when sometimes on a night Irene will come downstairs and she'll be dressed all nice and her hair will be done up and Seulgi will ask where she's going and she'll say oh. I'm just going for a walk, babe. Be back soon. Just going to get some fresh air. I know it's late, yeah. I know it's almost midnight. Yeah, I  do. But it helps me relax. I just love walking through the city at night. All the bright lights, all the big neon signs. And there's barely any traffic. It's kind of peaceful in a weird urban way. I just love it. And Seulgi asks her how long and she always says the same thing. Maybe an hour. Maybe a little bit more. Don't wait up for me, okay? Get some sleep, babe. You're looking a little strung out lately. You need to be getting some more rest. Especially with exams coming up. And then usually Seulgi says okay and she smiles and she says have fun and Irene says she will and then she's gone and Seulgi's alone, except for one night, for that one night where she asked if she could come with her, if they go for a walk together, if they just go and stroll and take in the air, and Irene said sorry. I'm really sorry. But I prefer walking on my own. I listen to music. It helps me chill out. But we can go for a walk some other time. Sometime in the day. And Seulgi smiles again and she says okay. Sorry for asking. And then she's gone.

Or when they start arguing about little things, about stupid things that neither one of them wants to really talk about, and Irene is always the first one to get upset, she's always the first one to break down and cry and sit on the edge of the bed and push Seulgi's hands away and say get off of me, seriously, you're pissing me off, and Seulgi goes downstairs and she waits a half hour and she comes back up and she gives Irene a big hug and she smiles and makes a silly joke and she says I'm sorry. I'm sorry Irene. For whatever I've done. Tell me in future. Tell me if I've done something, okay? I can be better. We could be better. But she never says anything about Irene and she never will.

Or when the lies start to mount up and she takes a step back and realises how dreadful they sound, how completely over the top. She's a good liar, is Irene. She always has been. But she's not perfect. When it was Seulgi's birthday and they were going to go for a meal. Just the two of them and a couple friends. She'd booked it a month in advance and everything. A nice little booth all lit in red neon by the window overlooking the river. And the waiters would come and take their orders and bring their food out on a wheelie tray with a little pot of sparklers and a bottle of champagne and they'd clap and laugh and say happy birthday, Seulgi. Happy birthday. Hope you've had a great day. Except Irene wasn't there. Irene didn't show up. And Seulgi remembers it all. Remembers how she text Irene about a dozen times and she got one response, just one. I'm sorry babe. I tried to drive there from uni but the traffic's real bad. I'm stuck on Yanghwa Bridge and there's no way around. I think they've closed the roads off and there's been an accident or something. I'm trying to get there as fast as I can. And then there were no more messages for another three hours, and she remembers how she sat by the end of the table telling her friends that Irene was stuck in traffic and seeing the piteous looks on their faces and grimacing and trying not to cry. Trying so hard not to break down and cry. She never even showed. Not even for my birthday. Could you not think of a better lie?

After a while she learned to ignore it. It was for the best. To just let it go. She was everything she claimed to be. She was a hard worker on the weekdays. That's why she spent most of her time at the library. And she had to see her equestrian friends every Saturday. She just had to. That much was a given. And she was always right in their little fights, in all their stupid arguments. Because that was Irene. She was always right. She was the logical one, and Seulgi always the emotional thinker, the one that spoke with her heart. Except equestrian had ended six weeks ago and she was never at the library and she was never right, either. She was always wrong. Irene was always wrong.

The worst was on the nights when Seulgi was alone. When she would sit in front of the TV trying so desperately to distract herself. When she would stand in front of the big window watching the night pass by in long arcs of pale light like the coming of an antediluvian dawn and she would take out her phone and stare at the screen until it went black and debate very seriously about whether or not to call Irene, whether or not to ring her and ask her where she was, what she was doing, what she was going to be doing. But she didn't. Irene had promised her. She said she'd be there. Every time. She just had a little more work to do and then she was going to the Student Union for a couple drinks with her coursemates and then she was coming back, and she'd love to watch a movie, yeah. She'd love that a lot.

And when she came in just before twelve she'd always smell the same. The faint stink of cigarettes and champagne on her breath. And no amount of mints or chewing gum or breath strips could cover it up, no matter how hard she tried. It was always there, that stench. She wasn't a smoker. Never had been. She didn't smoke around Seulgi and she didn't smoke around their friends or her parents or Seulgi's parents for that matter. She didn't smoke except to look good. On nights out here and there. But never anywhere else. And she'd smile and walk straight by and go and pour herself a glass of water and drink it straight down and Seulgi would ask her how she'd been, how the work was, how her night had gone, and Irene would say good, thanks babe. Just went to the library, finished a bit of reading. Then we went to the Student Union, had a couple drinks, had a bit of a chat and a laugh. Movie time? And Seulgi would say yeah and she would smile, but inside she was seething. They didn't serve champagne at the Student Union, and the library had been closed for fire alarms.

And Irene would come and sit down on the couch beside her and she'd cosy up to Seulgi's neck and she'd laugh and say I missed you, babe. I did. I missed you. And Seulgi could smell it. The stench of perfume, of orange and rose, a perfume that wasn't hers and wasn't Seulgi's, another woman's perfume, another woman's mark on Irene's neck, on the flush of , on her face and on her chest and everywhere else. Another woman's woman. And Seulgi would sit and she would drape an arm over Irene's shoulder and they would turn the lights low and watch something easy, something simple, and she would gaze up at the light on the ceiling and pose in that quaking ovoid of gold a series of questions to ask Irene, a serious of answers she desperately wanted. How long has it been going on? When did it start? How many times? How long were you there for? Did you think of me while she was ing you? And did you drink champagne and smoke expensive cigars and laugh and talk about me before or after she had her fingers inside you? Did you enjoy it? Is that all it is? Just ? Or is there something more? Do you even care anymore? Did you ever care? Was there ever anything there? Anything between us.

And every night would end the same. They would sit and watch the credits and then Irene would pull herself up and yawn and fetch herself some water and she'd say that was fun, I'm going to bed. Night, babe. And Seulgi would sit there for a minute and she'd ball her fists until the blood was slick on her nails and she would stand and swear she was going to say something, she was going to stop Irene right there and ask her everything, tell her to come clean, demand it, admit to all the lies you've told me. You're not seeing your friends and you're not staying at the library and you weren't in traffic. You skipped out on my birthday so you could sleep around with another woman and then you lied about it to my face. You're a habitual liar, Irene. And a terrible person. That's what you are. And I want you to tell me everything.

But she would never say it. She would force a smile and fight back the tears and move in for a kiss and say goodnight, babe. I love you. Because she did, she very much did, and she wished in every aching moment of hatred or pity or wallowing that she didn't, that she didn't believe in fate or in first loves or anything superstitious, that she was strong enough to get up and confront Irene and tell her what an awful person she had been, that she was strong enough to tell her she needed to leave, but she couldn't. She never could. Because the thought of losing her was too much. A life without Irene was a life she could no longer properly imagine. And it hurt. It hurt so much. But she would smile and laugh and she would go on up to bed and she would kiss Irene and she would tell her how much she loved her and she would kiss further down and she would kiss all along Irene's jawline and she would see ever so faintly the lipstick marks daubed across her neck and she would kiss where another woman had kissed her, where she had been so thoroughly claimed, and she would smile and kiss Irene to sleep and she would tell herself it was all okay, it was all fine, they were in love and that was all mattered, it was all going to turn out okay in the end. Because it was that or lose Irene forever. And sometimes, a lie is better than nothing at all.