It was
wicked. Delirious heady crazy dangerous. Normal.
Here's what: she has always been a liar. She has always changed truths in telling stories, abbreviated or lengthened time slots in describing a days worth. Because it is easier sometimes, than explaining. Because it is easier, sometimes, than elaborating, or justifying. Because she is lazy. Because she is a liar. Because who isn't.
David knows this. He also knows that these lies are harmless for the most part. Besides for the lazy, they also create a protective shield around herself. The less truth known the better.
But. Never any big lies to people that matter. Never any lying at all to lovely solid David. She tells him this blithely, easily - not stopping to think - sure there's nothing she's forgotten.
Like: the time she was held up in a meeting for hours; really was shopping. Like: the time her room took her all day to clean; really read through all of Crime and Punishment. Really: nothing big. Pointless. Like habit, come out of nowhere.
Does it matter. Does it even matter. Would he care. Would he wonder that the lie's truth found out may be another lie. Is it indicative. Does it matter.
Every time she lies to him is her first time. She wonders if she is really a liar. Whether it is really that ingrained. Or: whether all people are liars. And again: whether it matters.
Really: Each time is nothing big, she says.
Each time she tells you this, she is lying.