Skip to content →

Author: Naomi Shuyama

How to Lie

Tell him that you think he has an intelligent face with a nice Roman nose, that his boss just doesn’t see all that intelligence. Tell him that he is funny, that you share the same dark humor, fantasizing about tripping people into spike strips. Tell him he has a nice dick, even though it looks like a naked toe poking out of a holey sock. Tell your friends he has a nice dick, “six and a half inches at least.” Tell him, “Yes, right there feels good.” Tell him you came. Tell him during cleanup that it doesn’t bother you that his thick, curly chest hair sticks to your sweaty skin. Tell him that you love him too, after he confesses and looks into your dark eyes tenderly, possessively. Tell him you respect his political ideologies or rather his family’s. Tell him you like his family, especially his smelly, ugly ratlike dog. Tell him his mother isn’t meddling. Tell her that she’s lost weight. Tell her that you like her necklace, and when she buys you the same exact one, tell her you love it. Tell him you think he could be a successful artist. Laugh when his brother tells you Lucky 7 should cater your wedding. Tell his brother they taste great with soy sauce when he asks, “Do you have pets where you’re from?” Laugh when his mother says, “I’ve always wanted an Asian daughter-in-law.” Laugh louder when she says, “Halfies will be so beautiful.”

Tell him, “I do,” submissively, carefully before they can tell.

Flash Fiction by Naomi Shuyama