All smart people lie. If they tell you they don't, they're probably lying.
The smarter they are, the better they are at it, and the more frequently they do it. They hold fast to the subtle habits found in their personal brand of deception, and they cling to open doors and figurative speech. They spell out the truth and play it off as sarcasm, or they pretend they don't remember a thing, or they wear glasses that they don't need, or they tilt their head in feigned disbelief or understanding.
And the truth is that, this guy, he is probably a genius. His speech is deliberate and concise, and there are few gaps in his logic. For him, emotion must be a whole different plane, a fourth dimension that is inaccessible to those who live by his reason. It must be nice for him. Never having to look at what he thinks is real and wonder if it's something he made up to just to feel better about everything. He would actually be pretty intimidating if I could actually admit that he intimidates me. A personal life lesson he has taught me is that I shouldn't believe in anything that I can't ever know.
But he probably lies a lot, because like I said, he's really smart. If he did, I would never know, and if he didn't, I would never believe him now because there is no way that I could ever know. So I have a dilemma. How could I ever trust someone who is always a million steps ahead of me, who probably knows almost everything, who I could never get the best of or second guess or convince him to stop second guessing me?
And when I lay down at night, I know that I'm a fool. I'm a woman through and through, impulsive and repulsed by the undeniable sovereignty of reason. What I feel is nothing but a denial of what they know the truth should be, stupid justifications for things I force into reality. When I don't feel truly sorry is when I must be wrong.