Our Secret

It was like that every time he looked at me. He’d utter some false compliment, some empty line of praise. Yet he was aware I knew he was full of bullshit. It became a game. How many times could he get me to roll my eyes?

“You look like you belong running on the Swiss Alps,” he told me one day when I wore my hair in braids, wrapped around the crown of my head.

Another day I wore a red dress to go out to dinner with friends. He kept pulling on the hem as I ran around, getting ready.

“If you go out in that, every man is going to try and tackle you down.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked, distracted as I slipped my feet into some black heels.

He blocked my way to the front door and gave me a long look that made my toes curl. “You look like a naughty schoolgirl personified. You’re every sick man’s daydream come to life and out at night.”

I swallowed and stepped back from him. He lifted his eyebrows, like “see?”, and disappeared upstairs.

I changed my dress after that.

And then wheneve