Fibs

Put simply, he never liked to lie about anything.

It was probably down to his upbringing. Loving as they were, both of his parents were fairly strict about many things; telling lies was one of them. However, what happened to him recently, in fact, only a couple of evenings ago, was going to change all that. Had he not gone looking around out there in the poor light, it would never have happened. Had he checked to see whether he had the right colour during the day, when looking along the back of the shelf would have been easy, it would never have happened. Did he have regrets? How could he? All he had been quite certain about, over the last day or so, was the inevitable conversation about it. The chat with his wife. He was not looking forward to it.

He chose his time carefully. It was shortly after teatime, with everything cleared away, when they would normally relax, maybe they’d be looking forward to a show or a film on the television. That’s when he said he needed to tell her something. They were sitting down when he started.

He wiggled his head. “I don’t know how to tell you this,” he said.

She smiled. “Try me.”

He took a deep breath. “OK. I’ve won seven million on the lottery!” he blurted. Then, with a quick shake of the head, he said, “No. We’ve won seven million on the lottery.”

She frowned, she could see he was serious. “You really think you’ve won that, do you?”

“Yes. I do.” He took the ticket out of his wallet. “I’ve spent time on the internet. The numbers all check out. I’ve gone over them several times.”

She stared at it for some time before looking up. “But you don’t do the lottery. Heck, you don’t even gamble.”

He squirmed in his seat a little before saying, “I know, I was just passing the newsagency when this notice caught my eye.” That was a fib.

“When was this?”

“A couple of weeks ago.” Another fib.

“And you just walked in and bought a ticket?”

“Yep.” Also a fib.

“What newsagents are we talking about?”

He scratched his head. “I forget where I was now; it might have been our local, but it could have been another shopping centre. Sorry.” Yet another fib. They were building up, he thought.

She went wide-eyed. “I can’t believe it. What are the odds?”

“I looked that up too. One site said the odds were eight million, one hundred and forty five thousand and sixty, to one.”

She stood and threw her arms up. “Wow! If this is right and we really have won, what are we going to do with the money?’

He shrugged with a big smile. “Whatever we want,” he said, managing to sound casual.

She took a few paces and threw her arms around him.

The following day, he thought long and hard about their conversation. He was still feeling uneasy about it, but on the other hand he’d always been the sort of person that preferred the quiet life.

For once in his life he saw his fibbing to be a much better option than telling the truth.

How could he ever tell her?

…in the shed looking for a tin of paint, finding the dirty oil lamp, wiping it with a rag to see what it was made of, the genie popping out, the granting of a wish…

Nah!