“What do you mean you knew, day one, that your marriage was doomed?”

I arched, thankful the barstool had a high back. Every cell in my body screamed flee. My body ached like a mirror to my soul. My mind was blank. I was unprepared for drinks and conversation with anyone. Especially when that anyone had deep, brown eyes, and a captivating smile. I said, “I didn’t say my marriage was doomed. I said I was aware that any relationship with him was doomed.”

He lifted his snifter of bourbon to his clean shaven lip and sipped. “Guess you’re a psychic.”

I laughed. “That’s a conversation for another time with less bourbon.”

He turned towards me, flashed that smile, and draped his glass-free arm on the back of his barstool. “So, you’re agreeing to meet me another time?”

I didn’t respond. My ability to commit to anything was, I hoped, only momentarily impaired. I said, “Knowing a relationship is doomed from the start is instinctive.”

“I don’t have that instinct,” he said. He frowned and stared towards the bartender, not quite focusing on her. “I can’t count the number of times I was confident it would be a great relationship, and I ended up right back here.”

I sipped the last of the bourbon from my glass and raised it to request a refill from the bartender. She held up a finger and served the couple at the other end of the bar. I said, “Perhaps coming right back to the bar is your problem.”

He chuckled and replaced his glass on the bar to invite a refill. We watched the bartender add two fingers of the caramel liquid to our respective glasses. The sparse can lights in the ceiling created sparkling diamonds in our glasses and in the liquor bottles neatly lined along the back of the bar. I was glad the back of the bar was mirrorless. The reflection of my puffy eyes and sallow skin would be evidence of my weakness.

He cleared his throat. “If I had avoided here, I would not have met you and enjoyed this sparkling conversation.” He sipped his drink and returned the glass to its spot on the cocktail napkin. He added, “And I’m wondering what you would charge for a lesson on this relationship instinct.”

I chuckled. “Sure. I’ll give you all the wisdom I continue to ignore to my detriment and you get the next two rounds?”

“Done.” He bobbed his head once. “Seems like a bargain. But I’ll only post five stars when I can evaluate the training.”

“Fair.” I took another sip, leaned forward, and ironed my cocktail napkin with my fingertips. “Where shall I begin?”

“You claim you were aware the relationship was doomed from the start. What made you believe that? Why start it at all?” He stared forward, offering me only his profile and not his eye contact.

Satisfied with the lack of wrinkles in my napkin, I ran my fingertip around the rim of my glass. “Why get into it? A few reasons. Mostly the sex.” I smiled, but did not look at him.

“That’s honest.”

“I am honest. Too honest when it doesn’t count.” I sipped my drink. I swallowed and leaned forward so my hair would cover my face. “The ex insists I’m a liar. Which is also true.”

“A conundrum.”

I shook my head. “A contradiction. While I’m honest to my detriment, I’m also, in fact, a liar. To my detriment. It’s all the same.”

“Do tell.” He turned on his barstool again, facing me, his knees almost touching my thigh.

“The ex insisted that my behavior was inconsistent. That I claimed to love him but didn’t get him an anniversary card. So, he had to divorce me.”

“He’s divorcing you over a card?” His dark brown eyes opened wide. His eyelashes were oddly long.

I guffawed. “It’s as ridiculous as it sounds. We had agreed to go to an event for our anniversary — and that we would not get gifts or cards. But he surprised me with flowers and a card.” I grunted. “Surprised is not the right word. Concocted is a better word. He set me up to accuse me of not reciprocating.”

“But you both agreed the event was the gift.”

“Yes. But I knew he was always testing me. He’s used to dealing with simpletons who are incapable of logical observation.” I sipped my bourbon, saddened by voicing the truth. “He would create situations to paint me the fraud. That I claimed I loved him but did not get him an anniversary present. So, a liar.”

“It’s an oversimplification. And makes no sense.”

I nodded. “Sure doesn’t. On the surface. His mistake was not spotting the actual lie.” I sipped. Ironed my napkin. I took a sip of water the bartender had provided when I first took my seat and enjoyed the coolness of the condescension on the side of the glass.

“Sounds like a witch-hunt.”

“Similar. Ascribing characteristics and intention to an unwilling woman targeted by perversion. Sure. The beautiful creature, the subject of desire, marked with the letter A. Absolutely.” I sipped my water. “When a person resists love and happiness, when they’ve been betrayed too often, they find reasons to distrust.”

“I’ve seen that protective armour in many people. They attack when they experience love.” He closed his eyes. He took a long inhale, shook his head, and emptied his glass. With a wave to the bartender, he added, “Reminds me of my ex. Always with the games. But I don’t see how his games made you a liar. What did you lie about?”

I winced, incredulous at the way the term liar still tore at me. “The first day I met him. The first day. I knew he would be stuck with me.”

“Ah. Looking for a sugar momma?”

“Not at all.” I extended my glass to the bartender and rolled my hand to insist on a larger portion. She complied. I knocked the entirety back and asked for more. She filled my glass and offered a wry smile. I said, “I actively offered information so he would rely on my expertise. I volunteered to be his sugar momma.”

“Interesting.” He leaned forward again.

“Sometimes the truth is uncomfortable. But that’s the truth.”

“And how did you lie? This guy took advantage of you.”

“No. Quite the opposite.” I sipped my drink, enjoying the syrup on my lips. The heat in my chest. “I wanted a man. I wanted a partner. Someone who would get so entangled that he couldn’t leave.” Tears well in my eyes and I denied their production with a hard blink.

He frowned and considered his response. “Couldn’t? I don’t understand.”

Another hard blink. Resisted questions slammed around my mind. I forced the words. “I’m not… I’m not a woman that keeps a man’s attention for long.”

His lip curled when he frowned again. He struggled with his next words, speaking and stopping himself. He said, “You’re intelligent. Successful. And you’re certainly not hard on the eyes.”

I smiled. Thanks were too hard to verbalize. “There’s more to a relationship than a nice complexion and firm breasts.”

“True. So, what about you is so hard to love?”

The painful question. He asked it without hesitation. Boldly. I said, “I’m energetic. Tenacious. Driven. I’m an entrepreneur and I have succeeded at anything to which I have set my mind.”

With raised eyebrows, he said, “Sounds like a woman most men would treasure.”

“Sure does,” I said. “On paper. A woman like me not only pushes herself but also pushes her mate. To be better. To become his best self.”

“That’s the biblical definition of marriage. Partners who support and help each other.”

I shook my head. “Support is one thing. I don’t just support. I push.” My words stuck in my bourbon-coated throat. This was the time to confess. To this man. The time was now. “I have this ability to celebrate only the best in a person. To identify power and talent. The magic of the person. And although I also notice flaws, I believe deeply that I can encourage and lead that individual to his or her best self.” I emptied my glass and stared at the back of the bar. I confessed. “I push people beyond who they want to be.”

He groaned. “And you think that’s why he left you?” He reached for my hand, but reconsidered and pretended to wipe condensation from the bar.

“That’s why he left. For his own sanity, he has to claim that I’m a liar. That I play mind games with him. The being, his deeper self, knows I expected more love than he could give. And staying with me was too much for him. No matter how much I gave, I wasn’t worth the trouble. The expectation.”

He continued to rub the condensation off the bar. The wood shimmered with the smear of the liquid. He said, “What kind of man is he?”

I pursed my lips. I shut my eyes. “You want to hear the admirable or detestable qualities first?”

“Tell me how you want to tell me.”

My head filled with moments from my marriage. His touch. His smile. His jokes. His habits. I said, “He’s an good person. Let’s leave it at that. Football and hot dogs.”

“And that wasn’t enough for you?”

“Honestly? His openness drove my calculation to make myself indispensable. He would need me. He would depend on me. He would never be able to leave. And I could help him grow to be all that I saw in him.”

He sipped from his glass, taking his time. He gestured to the bartender to give himself an additional moment to consider. We watched the bartender pour and fill our respective glasses. He said, “So, I still don’t see how his accusation of you being a liar makes you a liar. Maybe you lied to yourself. About how he would make you happy. You’re a strong woman.”

“I’m strong. But I’m a sinner. A bad person. In those first days, from the first moment I met him, in fact, I bet he would come to depend on me financially, depend on me for meals and sex and advice and business, and be unable to leave.” I found the blinking not effective. I choked on my next words. “They all leave.”

“His choosing to leave because you are driven, and he is not, says nothing about you.” He reached for my hand then. He gripped it and gave a gentle squeeze.

I let him hold my hand, let myself feel his skin on mine, enjoying the warmth, the comfort. But I withdrew, sliding my hand out from under his to wipe my eyes with a cocktail napkin. I searched the bar for another napkin. I’d need it. I said, “You’re right. I’m a liar because I lie to myself. I told myself I could make him value me. Adore me. That I could transform his dependence on me into love. It was impossible. He would take my time, my energy, and the financial comfort and leave me. I’m a liar because all I gave him were dinners and business support and money. But I refused to let myself love him until he loved me. I was always testing him. I expressed my love by doing things for him. Each day, telling myself he would use me. And I would let him. At some point, he would resist my prodding, my pushing. My energy. He would reject me. Because he knew unconsciously, subconsciously, whatever, that I would never give my heart. He only had my mind.”

He leaned over the bar and retrieved a pile of cocktail napkins, offering me one. He said, “So you never loved him or you would not let yourself love him?”

I chuckled. “I knew he would only love me for what I could give to him. I thought it would be enough. All I did.”

“That’s not what I asked. I asked, did you ever love him? Did you stop yourself from loving him?”

I shook my head, clearing the thoughts slamming my skull. I said, “So, that’s how you use instinct to know a relationship is doomed from the start. You do the calculations and you make sure they balance. The mistake is not following that instinct.” I scanned our glasses. “I’ll get the next round.”

He put his hand over the top of his glass. “None for me. But you can give me an answer.” He turned to me, his eyes seeking mine. “Do you believe you’re unlovable?”

“I believe I’ve had too much to drink,” I said. “And I need to get some sleep.”

His face fell. He said, “I was hoping to spend a little more time with you.”

I took a deep breath. I would say it. “Love isn’t for me.”

He gestured for the check and I let him pay. As he signed and returned the billfold to the bartender, he said, “You still have not answered my other question. Do you love him?”

I shook my hazy head. Too much bourbon and too much conversation for one evening. I raised my eyes to meet his. His kind, handsome face evidenced his honest interest. His focus. His talent for listening without judgement. I said, “I never loved him,” as the tears rolled down my cheeks.

He nodded, returning his credit card to his wallet. He stood, slid out from behind the bar stool, and turned to me, his eyes moist, kind and concerned. “You are a liar.”

I reached for my purse tucked in the rail at my feet. He stood at least a foot taller than me, so I was eye-level with his white collar. I said, “Thank you, Reverend. For meeting me here. For listening.” I stood, extricating myself with some inebriated difficulty from the tall barstool, straightened my sweater, and draped my purse on my shoulder.

With a wave of his arm toward the door, he said, “Just for the record, I think you’re very special. I’d like to chat again. To be here for you. And I’d like to see you for services this coming weekend.”

I laughed, making my way to the exit. “Sure. Front row. Can’t wait,” I replied as I passed through the door.

As the glass door closed between us, he called out, “Liar.”