On the stand is me. Much of the battered light beats shadows into my face. There is no judge, no jury. The room is empty, save for a sole typist’s typewriter that is blue on the exterior shell and a grey, hard metal on its keys. A faded wood from the Deco era panels the interior. I am naked.
“There’s much to tell here, your honor,” I begin. I clear my throat, to ensure my voice travels. “Much to tell indeed.”
Some of the wood seems to bend in the dim light. A bulb above where the plaintiff would stand sputters off. My arms hang at my butt like a reverse hotdog. I’m oily.
“See, I never planned to be in this position. Never meant to want to be where I am.” I paused for an affect, hoping the audience would notice. The seats sit. I do too. I stand, thinking it might rouse them into the drama of what I am saying.
“I am in love, really. Really really. I mean totally. Totally total. I am in love with a girl and it is as great as things can be and there is nothing better, unless it is beside her, telling her that I am in love with her.”
My fist hits the table awkwardly. Slips for the most part, due to the oil. Hits my leg. Slow bruise bubbles into being. It takes the shape of a heart.
“But I am quite afraid, as anyone should be of a woman so universally radiant, that I do not deserve her in the frank way that no one can truly; that she will never see how the beauty of how she dreams in a slow, careful practice; that she is the best being that has been; that should be kissed daily, and that the sun tries to in gorgeous curves; that she feels like a memory I have known before I could remember; that I cannot express my want to spend my eternal present with her always; that simply, she does not know how excited and beloved she makes me; that she will not see she is made of stars and souls; that she cannot know that each time I am with her, it happens again – she happens, love happens, we happen, but stronger from the piling up of our warm bodies; that she is to be free and full and furious, which she is all those things already, which is what brought me to her, which might make me lose her; that I am losing her, for in the gladdest of times, in the most wanting of times, in these times when I wished our time on others, she said we might breakup.”
The light is not good for my back. The spine is unbound, the stories spilling easily. My shoulder blades clatter together, telling the truth that deep down below the muscles and whittled bones is the inevitable truth that everyone comes out of the womb broken, a terror, with the wrong thing already, and with a drying wound that shows that nothing ever fully heals. The extinguished bulb flicks as though to thumbs up the thought.
“I understand, I do. Times are rough. We were wed to happiness. We do not want to fear. We do not want the blank days to circle around our neck. We do not want the loss we tried to avoid by smoothing together. We do not want to lose our limbs when we learned how to feel through them again together.”
The wooden pews are open mouths. Nothingness screams into the room.
“But these are good thoughts for they are ours. Uniquely ours. We are in love, which means we are tied to the rhythm of something greater than ourselves, to the reality that to love is to realize someone else exists: her. And she is all of existence at once, your honour.”
Though unprofessional, my penis wishes to have its say in the room now too. It rises as I do. Darkness greets the one-eyed pirate.
“I apologize.” I wait, let the dull rays soften the parcel of unmet flesh.
“I apologize for everything, really, your honor.”
The bulb gasps again.
Then, the case closes and someone else later sits on the stand, wondering why there is so much gunk on the seat.