He looked at the present she placed on his desk. He had never before been given a gift when someone left. He looked up from it and at her, tilting his head quizzically.
“Open it,” she said lightly.
Slowly he unwrapped the box. In it was a blank journal. It was lovely. A soft, high quality leather, embossed with his name at the bottom. He gently ran his fingertips across the larger embossed title, “My Stories” in the middle of the cover.
“This is very nice,” he said plainly.
He opened the cover and saw the faintly lined pages, each with gilded edges.
“You don’t get it, do you?” She said softly, with a lilt of pity in her voice.
He shook his head slowly, secretly wondering.
“You always tell us you have a photographic memory,” she started.
He nodded, this time with a faint smirk of satisfaction. He looked at her straight on, awaiting the rest of the expected compliment.
“Well, now every day you can write down the stories you tell each one of us and reread them. That way you’ll remember the lies so you don’t keep getting caught in them.”
He was still looking at her blankly as she shook his hand and walked out.
“He still doesn’t understand,” she said to herself as she left.