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Summary
She’d answered the door, barefoot and flannel pyjama bottoms and a cotton tee I recognized as Jim’s, and then had unceremoniously deposited herself back on his couch. The butterfly tattoo on her ankle peaked out at me, a half-hidden secret not quite tucked under her thigh. Jim had looked up from his laptop then, introduced her as a friend of his from his Chicago days who was getting herself settled in London.
That was a lie, of course, but by the time I found out Jim had told so many lies (Galway-born, unassuming system administrator, not-gay, though he had oddly enough been telling the truth when he professed his love for Deep Space Nine), the ones about Irene hardly seemed to matter.