"So what do you do?" he asked, from the arm chair he'd claimed adjacent to me.

I reclined on the back of the sunken couch, fully comfortable with the words I was mulling over, letting them roll thoughtfully on my tongue.

"I'm a liar," I answered, as if it were as obvious as my hair color or the gravity present in the room, holding the books down on the coffee table.

A confused look crossed his face.

"I thought they said you were a poet?"

My eyes left him, lids following lashes to pull towards the carpet. I smiled softly to myself.

"Is there really a difference?" I said aloud, feeling like this was one of the moments that needed a sigh, but none audible escaped me.

Confusion stayed stubbornly plastered on his face, his eyes debating whether I actually knew my own words, as if maybe I was disoriented from the cup in my hand, and he hadn't noticed at first.

I shrugged.

"I could tell you stories, true or not, but either way, you would think they were unbelievable."