No Regrets

"You don't have to look at me like that." Jacob nervously fidgeted with a saltshaker across the table.
What he'd never understand was that it was better that I did look at him like that. It'd break his heart if I looked at him the way I felt inside, grinning with the satisfaction that I was days away from the relief that would cleanse me from all the things I'd done in the past year and a half. What he'd never understand was that he'd found me at the wrong time and that I needed to get the fuck out of this place long before I met him.

"I've never met anyone like you before," I lied. "Everyone I've ever met has slipped so easily into a category and a stereotype, but not you." He stood the shaker upright on the table and looked deep into my eyes. Well, he thought it was deep. I continued.

"That's what intrigued me about you, but I knew this day was going to eventually come. I was selfish because I went with my instinct instead of reason." One of the more honest things I'd said all night, but not for reasons he allowed himself to realize.

"I'm sorry," I lied again. "This is just something I have to do on my own." He shifted in his seat and averted his eyes. His store-bought basketball jersey hung over a t-shirt he'd thrown on before work this morning, and my mind drifted to double-check whether I'd left anything at his apartment. I hadn't, because I'm starting to get too good at this, which consequently is why I have to get the hell out of here.

"It's just so weird," he said, staring at the sugar caddie resting up against where the table meets the wall. "I can't look at you. It hurts me to see your face like this. I'm so used to seeing you smiling and laughing; you don't even look like you right now." The energy it took to keep the smile from breaching onto my face was shifted to the task of stifling the urge to break out of character, to let him in on everything. I itched to do it just for the satisfaction of seeing his jaw drop -- more in shock of my twisted ability to manipulate than in shock of how much it hurt.
But that was just the type of sadism I was leaving behind, so I spared him and went with the lesser pain. I felt bad for the poor kid, but he broke my number-one rule, which was indulging in the saccharine emotions that so many people superimpose onto their relationships because they think it's how they're supposed to feel. Feelings that I couldn't possibly evoke in someone who knew so little about me. Going through the motions of being in love instead of being brave enough to actually attempt it. This blatantly false lovey-dovey crap instantly ignited my distrust, which turned to resentment, which spawned these little games from which I emerged the victorious gladiator in my eyes and a brave martyr in theirs.

His cell phone went off in his pocket and he expertly poked the leg of his jeans, hitting the silencer through the thick fabric. He looked up apologetically, but I kept my eyes lowered to his side of the table, as if deep in thought, not knowing what to say. He interpreted my body language as such, instead of what I was really thinking. There used to be a prank show on the comedy channel where a British guy had Liam's same cell phone ring. He answered it in traditionally quiet places like museums and libraries and then screamed inappropriate things to the imaginary person on the other end. The viewer at home chuckled at all the passers-by looking quizzically at this jerk, and they don't even realize that they've unintentionally walked into the role of the straight-man, the reactor, and that their role is essential to the comedy of the whole farce.
"I'm sorry it had to be like this," he began, and I knew right away where he was going. Please, Liam, please don't do what you're about to do.
"I'm sorry, but I have to say it before you go."
I can't be held responsible for what I might do just to get back at you for what you're about to say.
"I've felt it for a long time now, and I'll always regret not saying it if I don't."
Don't. No regrets.
"I love you."

Christ, you'd think that by some Darwinian theory of evolution, even the fish in the barrel would learn to elude the cross hairs.
Apparently not the case here.
I guess I took pity on him because I took a deep breath and decided to let him in on the farce that was our relationship. It was a moment of humility; the veritable letter to the police by the criminal who wants to be caught and punished as they know they should be.
"I hope I'm easy to forget." I sighed. "I'm only doing this because I don't think you deserve to feel the way you do."
I didn't mean he didn't deserve feeling that way because he was better than me. I meant that I was doing this, mirroring his faked emotions of love and caring, because a person could never feel for me the way he said he did. Sometimes it's cruel to be kind, but I was trying to save him years of mimed relationships. It might hurt now, sure, but what I meant was that he wasn't worthy of any kindness he thought I had thrown his way.
He slowly raised his head to look at me and he smiled.
The first time I'd actually meant something I said to him, and he smiled.
I had given him the chance to see my cards, and he'd chosen the complimentary way out. The way where the wound of my leaving him is cauterized with flattery.
The irony is that I wouldn't be leaving him if he had stepped out of this role-play between us to hear the truth when it was finally spoken to him and give me what I deserved. I couldn't even stifle my chuckle as I walked away.
Maybe I should have felt bad, but I knew that even though he heard me laugh, he didn't listen to what it meant.