We've been eating for 20 minutes now, and he hasn't mentioned a word about it.  Like the ignored problems of a hypocrite's past, he pretends as if nothing has changed, like there is nothing to discuss.  But for me, everything has changed.  I don't look at him the same.   It's as though my friend of the last three years, the one who anticipated my stressors with kindness and supported himself with the frequent sound of my voice, is absent from my affection.   In his place is left a replica of himself, a zombie, who I know in only in the formal sense of the word, lacking the connections of emotion and familiarity we once shared.

He called me yesterday to suggest this meeting and I assumed he wanted to confront me on the issue, to settle it in his mind and move on with closure to our relationship.  He knows I lied.  He knows that I know he knows I lied.  Still, he says nothing, instead pretending as if he does not want to discuss it, like he, the victim, just wants to experience his missing friend again.  But I don't want to buy that explanation.   With the temptations of my own rationalizations, I'd rather find his motive directly, instead of leaving this day with only questions in my mind.

So I say it.  In the middle of his rant about the Met's bullpen, I blurt it out.

"I lied Jack.  When Rick cornered me about what actually happened, I paniced, and told him the plan was your idea.  I didn't have the courage to face him with my real intentions, nor do I have it now."

He is stunned, so much so that he cannot look at me.  At least I think he's stunned.

For a moment, he has no response, and nor do I for that matter.  I said what I said, but somehow I can't handle it and I'm overwhelemed with instant regret.

"Hey, pass the salt."

That's it, that's all he says, and we return to the Mets without another word, skipping the cliches and discovering each other again in the forgiveness he insisted.