Desmond tasted the words as he spoke them. They smeared an oily gall across his tongue that stayed there long after the sentence evaporated into the air. It wasn't the words themselves or even their meaning but rather how easily his mouth formed them, automatically, without thinking, they were out there, they had stained him and surprised him before he even realized he was participating in a conversation. He had fabricated fictions before, plenty of them, elaborate fairy tales in which he starred, stories so ridiculous the listener believed the sentiment that appeared to inspire them. But this one, murmured in a tone all earnestness and sincerity, a lame pair of words, the easiest to utter, the least likely to be believed and he hoped that they would not deceive but imagined that the bitter tang signaled they had been well received, his pitiful, wrongful "Me too."
Part of the Covers series