The tale below – originally published in a slightly different form – is true, to precisely the extent it needs to be.

The well-dressed and only slightly unsteady woman drained another cosmo and smiled ruefully at me. “You know how to tell a story, anyway, I’ll give you that.”

This was our first date. We’d met online through a relationship service, one of those companies specializing in “sophisticated computer matching algorithms.” We’d been identified as “highly compatible,” and after a few email exchanges and phone calls had decided to take a chance on a real-world meeting.

Unfortunately, and counter to her profile’s claims, in person she was shy nearly to the point of introversion. In spite of my best efforts at drawing her out, at dinner I had done most of the talking; some of the talking had been a bit colorful. It always is with me, ever since I was a kid. The world’s just more interesting to me than it is to other people.

She set her glass down on the polished wood, concentrating on aligning the base precisely with the existing ring. She was more or less successful.

“Don’t get me wrong, they’re good stories, but do you expect anyone to believe them, really? You wrote a symphony? Right. Most people would just say they’d messed around with a guitar or something. But you’ve got to take it further, make yourself sound more interesting, but it’s all just bullshit.”

“Hey, c’mon, it isn’t like I’m claiming to be the heir to a Nigerian fortune or something! I’m just an ordinary middle-aged guy lucky enough to have some interesting things happen in his life.”

“Oh, please. You don’t even know me at all and you’re telling a stranger this kind of…”

“Um, we had dinner together, we watched a mediocre movie, and we’ve been having drinks for almost two hours. We’re hardly strangers, even if I did need to drag almost any personal details out of you that weren’t already posted on your dating profile. Your name’s Natalie, you’re working on your master’s in social work at Barry University, you drive an Audi but keep the keys on a Porsche key fob, you cover your mouth when you laugh and smile — and you have a great smile! — you’ve studiously avoided any discussion of your relationships, past or present — even while you’ve less-than-discreetly asked about my marriage and divorce.” I paused for a second, a little annoyed, but knowing she had a right. “Yes, I talk a lot, but I listen, too. You won’t find stories if you don’t pay attention.”

I had a hunch I shouldn’t have said that — the combination of too much detail and too much defense pretty much ensured there wouldn’t be a second date. But someone that shy might not even get it, and was probably the wrong person for me, anyway. I knocked back the rest of my drink as I stared into my own eyes in the mirror behind the bottles.

Yeah, maybe she wasn’t entirely wrong. But the world is built on stories, not facts, and liberties are always taken when tales are told. The unadorned truth has plenty of value, but the most important lessons come from stories. Besides, if history is written by the victors, then who wins in the wars we fight with ourselves? The guy with the audience wins, of course.

Smiling, I turned back to Natalie, fresh witticism on my tongue, only to see her slipping her wallet back into her purse as slid somewhat gracelessly of her barstool.

“So, uh, nice meeting you. Good luck with your book,” she said, and executed as swift an exit as she could manage, given the height of her heels and the height of her martini count.

I shrugged. So it goes. I motioned to the bartender to pour me another, but she pointed over her shoulder (without looking) at the clock on the wall and shaking her head.

“Aw, Kim, c’mon, just one more? You haven’t inventoried the bar fridge yet. I know you have time. The boss won’t mind.”

She rolled her eyes at me. “I know you, remember? You’ll try to turn that ‘one more drink’ into two, and then you’ll give me some shit about how you thought maybe tonight’s date was ‘the one.’ Next thing I know you’ll try some slick complimentary maneuver to get past my common sense and try to get me to go home with you again, and you’re a nice guy but you snore like a jet taking off and hog all the blankets.” She leaned across the bar and gave me a kiss on the cheek; I allowed myself to believe it lingered a fraction of a second longer than usual.

“G’wan, you. That chick was a waste of your time. You deserve better, anyway. Go home to your cats.”

I signed the check and slid it back across the bar. With a far too melodramatic sigh, I walked into the damp and dark of a late-night Miami swelter. As Kim locked the door behind me I fumbled in my bag for the ever-present pen and journal. Kim was wrong about one thing; the evening wasn’t a waste of time at all. These stories don’t write themselves, you know.

That’s my job.