My girlfriend likes to equivocate what she did throughout the day. With a wry grin, she leaves me guessing. I am left to discern her activities by her body language. With her dark eyes, she subliminally forfeits. I know she is just being bellicose as her fingers scratch into her own skin. She has vestigial scars from these common engravings. Yet, I cannot help but to feel acrimonious because she is free and I am not. Putting my jealousy aside, I find it laudable to be so unabridged. Then again, her life is mendacious because her own “freedom” has boxed her in. She grins at me and I realize the specious life she lives; her secrets are impervious and they are her cage. I wish she understood it would be expedient to tell the truth. If she doesn’t tell me, I can only presume that she has found somebody else. The thought is repugnant. I cannot fathom her life of parsimony; love becoming so cheap. She tells me a little white lie. “I’m joking,” she says. I think she is being facetious.