The streets are beautiful here, and after a rain, the people hidden within its fancy cafes and market blossom forth. Little tulips, vibrant and well dressed. I have begun to associate the tinkling of their coffee cups with the cheap bells we used to string on our Christmas tree as a kid, the kind attached to tiny present boxes. I spent my time wondering at the miniature present inside, who it was for, and what tiny families were littering them across our tree, until one year I opened one. A Styrofoam cube.
The next year I wondered again anyway. Sometimes the lie is better, is the point. A pro that outweighs the con. Today’s pros are invisibility and the tinkling of coffee cups. And while I don’t need invisibility much in large crowds, it helps the habit I have of getting too close. The market stands are bright reds and oranges and greens for the fall. The apples are the color of the brightness of eyes closed against the sun. As a knife puncturing skin. A woman in soft pink caresses a macintosh that’s bloomed green, and she has laugh lines that are indescribable. Of all the fiction written on my condition, none describe this part accurately. I did not gain better eyesight. I lost.
Is it raining with you?
Things The Law Does Not State: There are only two moments per day in which an entire jury will share the same excitement during deliberation. 1. Lunch. 2. Dismissal. After seven hours locked in the same room, we greeted the latter with gusto. 12 bored dogs scratching at the same white door. 12 excited dogs at the clear glass exit doors. 12 dogs tilting their heads and jamming it up. Good dogs. Good jury. Justice dogs. Outside wet.