AT 2:18 A.M. Bush plays through the sound system, the glass bottle of Budweiser vibrating against the metal desk in time to the bass. The world outside is quiet, but the lines of the Internet are alive, a buzz of late-night activity. Mike switches screens, fingers furious on the keys, a message tapped out as insults and trash-talking occur across a thousand miles of cyberspace.
Behind him, there is movement, a body rolling over in a bed. Jamie, her red curls sticking to her curves as she breathes his name. The woman he pays to keep his life in order, coming twice a week, Sundays and Thursdays, armfuls of groceries in chubby hands. She stocks the fridge, cooks up a storm, and then settles in on the couch. There they typically smoke weed, watch TV, and shoot the shit. Eat. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Laugh. Repeat. At some point he’ll move closer to her, throw his arm around, and pull her in. She has meat on her bones, enough that her sink into his chest feels like a comfortable pillow. One that breathes, provides comfort, smells of vanilla and woman. Sometimes she’ll unzip his pants, take out his cock, and carry him to a high-infused nut. Sometimes she won’t. They’ve never fucked, never kissed, but he likes to have her. She breathes life into the space, into him. He glances back at her, hits a few keys and turns down the music a little. Sometimes, in his life of solitude, he forgets common courtesies. How others live. Jamie is drunk, the line of bottles along the windowsill evidence of their night. Soon, he’ll join her. Finish this up and crawl into bed. Pull her against him. She’ll let him. She always does. He likes it when she stays. Likes the scent of a woman on his sheets, the huff of breath on his chest as she sleeps. He wonders, for a moment, if she’d come without the money. He doesn’t pay her to drink with him, suck his cock, sleep in his bed. But if he didn’t employ her for the other things, would they still be friends? Would she stop by? Hang out?
He focuses on the screen, taking his time, moving the mouse carefully, superimposing Deanna’s face on the drunken coed’s sexy frame, the background clearly showing the bar’s name in neon lights. The light is all wrong, pointing a giant, clear arrow to the falsehood of the pic. So he continues. Highlights her face, then adds bar shadows, the slight glow of neon light. A bit of grain, evidence of poor lighting captured by a cheap camera phone. He doesn’t rush, he checks the work carefully, and when done, clears the photo’s cache history and e-mails the image to Deanna, along with four other similar creations. Tomorrow she’ll post them to her Facebook wall, and another layer of the lie will be in place.
Her, aka JessReilly19, popular coed. Drinks Miller Lite with her fake ID. Likes live music and kegs.
Him, aka HackOffMyBigCock, fellow college student. Loves working out, football, and lap dances. Dabbles in hacking when he isn’t being the big man on campus.
We all live different lies.