Thinking Pretty
by Kayli Vee Levitan
I want one
thing, and one thing alone. That man, sitting across the room.
I’ll admit
it. I’ve started dressing differently. Skirt so tight, my thighs haven’t spent
this much time squeezed together since I was 22. God, it’s been 16 years. I used
a BIC pen to hold together my bun this morning, so I’d have an excuse to take
it out, letting my hair gently topple to my shoulders - just like in those
shampoo ads. I hope the black ink doesn’t stain my hair; it cost me a new
washing machine! He always walks in after I’ve sat down, it’s a pity – I bought
“sex shoes”, the kind that Mum wouldn’t be proud of. I had to sneak out of home
early this morning so she wouldn’t notice them. I can imagine her 10c coin
eyes, shrinking even further, as she judged her only daughter. These shoes look
amazing, and I’m getting really good at walking in them.
It started 13
months and 9 days ago. I was in the office when I spotted a man through the
window, who was coming up the stairs. As I went over to get a closer look - you
never know when you’ll meet Mr. Right, right? - he looked up at me. Like
magnets forcibly attracted with that sharp snap, our eyes met, then lingered. He
drenched me in a smile so innocent and pure, it was love at first sight. I used
to watch movies and think it wasn’t possible, but now I see how wrong I was! Love
at first sight. One moment I was planning for the impending case; the next, fantasising
about long, back-arching nights, pushed up against the full-length window
looking out at Table Mountain. Curtains open. Stockings torn. Lonely buttons, ripped
from their shirt. Wine spilt on the carpet.
Dark hair. Hazel
eyes. His strong arms propped on the table, housed comfortably in their
blue-grey suit and starched white shirt with grey buttons. He looks back at the
room of people searching him for answers, as if they were no more interesting
then the SA Idols omnibus.
He’s just so
beautiful.
Well, at
least I think so.
Everyone
else seems to think that he’s a psychopath.
It seemed
like an easy case; gorgeous man kills gorgeous wife and gorgeous children in a
reign of violence. There were no witnesses to defend him - even the dog was
dead - just his story, the story of a man who survived. But instead of being
treated like the survivor he is, he’s being punished like a wretched animal. My
poor, wretched animal.
I’ve sat
through trial after trial, case after case. After a while they all start to
blend together. Reams and reams of transcriptions cluttering my memory, my
thoughts. And numb fingertips, I never even knew that was a thing. Mum says I
should take a break. I will now that the case is almost over. I’ve been saving
money so I can treat him to a holiday - I even sold my TV - so I have enough
for us to escape to Plett for a few weeks. Well, maybe 2 weeks. He’s going to
be thrilled when I tell him. The battered old Louis Vuitton suitcase that Gran
left me is in the boot, in case he wants to leave straight from here. Mum questioned
why I had luggage, so I told her I was visiting Bernice. I feel terrible lying,
I haven’t seen Bernice since University, but… Ag, she’ll get over it when she finally
meets him and sees how happy he makes me.
For months
I’ve watched the prosecutor rip him apart. I appreciate his art. He uses simile
sparingly, but profoundly. His verbs carry power. His adjectives paint an
intricate picture of the tragedy. And he is all but certain that the artist
sits before him in a blue-grey suit and starched white shirt with grey buttons.
This poet, and a poet he is, cares very little about guilt, and a lot about
convincing a nation. And convicting an innocent man.
The woman sitting
at my table at lunch, kept forcing her opinions on me with her pickled
onion-stained breath. As if I actually cared. She thinks he should’ve claimed insanity.
It would keep him out of jail, she
says. He would’ve been OK, she says.
I ignored her. But she kept rambling on and on about his sentence – like she already
knew his fate. I picked up my knife, slammed it into the table, tip first,
missing her fat thumb by a centimetre. I threw my bag over my shoulder and
stormed off to my seat in court. She’s lucky I decided not to thrust the knife
into her eye. That’ll show her insanity. Either way, she shut up and now I get
the table to myself.
The way the whole
room thinks he’s guilty gives me that hot, itchy, creeping feeling up my neck.
I find it hard to control my hands. Fists clenched. Nails bitten. I don’t
understand why they don’t see what I see. He’s amazing. Perfect. After all this
time, watching, listening, caring – I know him and he knows me. Loves me. Needs
me.
Mum thinks
I’m being irrational. A love-sick child. But
she just doesn’t understand. He’ll go free, and then we’ll be together. It is
as simple as that. She potters around the kitchen, making us dinner and blabs
on about me seeing my friends and making new ones and all that nonsense. They’re
the ones who stopped calling – probably jealous because I found true love. They
don’t make me happy. I can’t have babies with them. They won’t change my cat’s
litter box. I need to focus my attention, my energy, my everything on my future.
I try to
catch his eye, but he obviously hasn’t spotted me yet. I want him to notice
that I’ve lost some weight. For him, of course. I want him to notice that I
have made an effort. I’ve been waiting, preparing for this day for months. For those
two words. Not guilty. Not. Guilty. I can already hear the judge saying it. My
man will stand up. He’ll look at me, and I at him, and everything will finally
be OK. I’ll help him get through anything. Psychologists, psychiatrists,
anything – I will sit there, hold his hand, love him. No matter what. We will
get through the horrors that he’s suffered. I try to make eye contact again. He
sees me, and there’s the smile I crave.
Tingling.
Everywhere. Every one of my nerves vibrate. I need to hold myself together. The
judge said something and I missed it. Fuck. Let’s hope it wasn’t important,
because it’s certainly not in the transcription. I can’t concentrate. I’ve been
waiting 13 months and 9 days for this. Soon it will just be me and him. So soon…
The judge
begins to speak again. I shut my eyes and imagine the two of us walking out
together, arm in arm. I wonder how much taller than me he actually is, what it will
feel like to be together, to touch. I wonder what he smells like, how warm his
hands are… I’ll know soon enough. I wonder what he…
Guilty.
My jaw
drops.
He looks up.
And with sideways
smile, my beautiful man –
Agrees.
See: http://www.sawriterscollege.co.za/SAWC+2013+Short+Story+Competition.html
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