The Relief of Small Lies

I said no and her shoulders dropped.

Just like that. The word landed

and something in her body released—

the tightness around her eyes loosened,

her breath came easier. She'd been

holding herself small, waiting to hear

if I'd seen him at the store, and

I said no without the pause

that usually comes before a lie.

I'm not even sure I had seen him.

A man in a green jacket, maybe.

Someone I looked past without thinking.

But her face changed when I lied,

and I let it. I let her shoulders

settle, let her stop waiting,

let the relief wash over her

without telling her that I'd seen

what might have been him, that I'd

turned away, that I was protecting

her from something or protecting

myself from saying his name out loud.

The lie felt like a kindness.

The lie felt like all I had to give.