The Fib

You sit across from her, your arms crossed and a stern look on your face, unaware of the Fib that's perched on your shoulder. Fibs are small – at least they start small – with sharp, purple claws and dark brown fur. Some people say that they have wings like a bat or large fangs that stretch all the way to their toes, but those people have never seen a Fib. Fibs are very hard to find if you're not looking.
You scratch at your neck, unsure of what you're going to say. That's the Fib, running its whiskers along your skin. It is not a sign of affection. They live off of lies – the bigger the better. They're drawn to them, like hummingbirds to nectar. Normally, a Fib will only feed on natural liars, the type of person who have grown comfortable with their pathological tendencies, but when a Fib is truly hungry, it will groom its next meal. Sometimes you don't know why you lied to someone. It was a silly lie, you tell yourself. You meant nothing by it. That was the Fib.
You're reaching for your glass now. The water in the glass sloshes up against the sides as your hands shake trying to hold it. It's cold. You wish that it was something stronger. The Fib wishes that it was too. Each and every lie has a flavor influenced by the situation that brought it about. The particular Fib on your shoulder loves lies that have been soaked in whiskey – mistakes made through liquor and told through a haze of uncertainty. Fibs like to get drunk too.
She's across from you, looking away through the windows of the restaurant and off into the streets. She's as beautiful as the day you first met her, and for a moment, you try to remember those times. The way her hair sat on her shoulders, the way she would brush it from front to back never sure of where it belonged, and even the way she clicked her tongue in disapproval at the way your hair never made more than a tangled mess, it all made you smile. Things were easier when it was just about the way you looked at each other, with just mutual lust and desire. Your Fib can see another Fib on her shoulder. Hers is larger than yours, fattened by months of lies told to cover up more lies. Like chocolates, those are the kinds of lies that a Fib can grow lethargic from. Most live off of simple white lies, but like people, not all Fibs eat only when they are hungry. Sometimes, like people, they eat when they are upset, or anxious, or even bored. A person who is hosting a bored Fib is a very unlucky person indeed. Your Fib waves and hers waves back. They don't care why either of them are there.
She says something, something about the two of you. The way her voice fluctuates excites the Fib on her shoulder and yours looks up at you expectantly. It's hungry. It hasn't eaten since breakfast when you told her to meet you here because you wanted to work things out. Hers hasn't eaten since she agreed. The itching is back on your neck and you scratch at it furiously. You tell yourself that you're nervous, that you don't know what to say. You say those things to her, too. The things she says to you then confuse you. Upset you. The Fib wants its lunch.
You open your mouth and then close it without saying a word. You put your glass back on the table and lean back in your chair. It makes a satisfying squeaking that you know bothers her. Let it. What she just said to you, about the kind of person you are, hurts deep. She always knew how to push your buttons. Your Fib feels sorry for you; it likes you. You've always been one to lie when it was convenient or when you had nothing better to say at all. It came naturally to you. All writers are natural liars after all. Your Fib has only had to prod you once or twice a week, when it was very hungry. One of those lies brought you to this table. Your Fib is sorry about that.
She goes on to say something else, but you've had enough and cut her off. You tell her the things that are on your mind, that have been on your mind for what feels like months now. Perhaps it has been months. You tell her all the things you hate about her, about the way she acts, about the way she acts around you. Towards you. Towards other men. She looks at you in shock, and begins to cry. You try to tell her that you're sorry, but your Fib already lapped up that lie like an appetizer.
She's yelling at you now, loud enough for the whole restaurant to hear. She always yells when she's angry and your Fib can tell by watching her Fib that when she's angry is the best time to eat. The two of you begin to argue back and forth, slowly gaining the attention of the rest of the tables around you; your food is sitting in front of you getting cold, all the while your Fibs are licking the juices pouring from your lips and down your chins the way a pet drinks from the faucet.
And that's when you say it.
Your Fib knows the big one is coming, the one that's going to end things between you and your fiancee. They have a way of knowing that sort of thing. It was its fault, after all. Your Fib is sorry about that, by the way, but it hasn't eaten a meal like this in so long. It watches greedily as the lie builds in your throat, as you slam your hands on the table and move to leave.
“I never want to see you again,” you say.
Your Fib feasts.