Day 41 - What You Don't Know

 WHAT YOU DON'T KNOW

Prompt - What You Don't Know : Write about a secret you've kept from someone else or how you feel when you know someone is keeping a secret from you.

My wife can't keep secrets.  Except that she can.  What I mean is, I never thought she could keep anything secret.  She is, despite what I'm about to tell you, the very definition of an open book.  A face that can't hide anything, a fundamental innocence that lacks the cunning to deceive.  In other words, honest.  It's one of the things I love her for.

We were heading down to London and discussing our plans for the two days ahead of us.  And something wasn't quite right.  On our first night we were booked into a reading at The Poetry Cafe.  We both loved Henry Normal, hadn't seen him for about fifteen years, and were anticipating a fun evening.  She'd booked the whole trip - she's far better at these things than I am - and I was eager to know what to expect.  But every time we got on to the subject of henry she changed it to something else.  Every time.  Like I said, something wasn't right, but I couldn't figure out what it might be.  I knew she couldn't be hiding anything from me, so I wondered what the problem was.  

When we got to the cafe we were told it was cash only for the night, their card machine had broken down.  I set off to find an ATM.  On my return I found my wife sat talking to a small man in a cardigan.  Only as I reached the table did I realise it was the man we'd come to see.  

"Ah, you must be Blyth."  I was taken aback, but assumed he'd just been told my name in conversation.  "I hope you'll like the poem."  And with that he stood up and wandered off to talk to someone else.

"THE poem?  Surely there's more than one, or has he taken up epic verse?"

She looked abashed, but delighted.

"Our poem.  When I booked I told him it was our anniversary and asked if he'd give us a mention.  he said he'd write a poem just for us."

"But..."  Now I knew what I'd been picking up on.  The evasion was her way of lying without actually lying, the nearest her nature allowed her to get to actual dishonesty.  

I've never been so proud of her.  And the poem was good too.