In my defense
It felt like the walk to the judge’s chambers. Every step an argument for the defense, every irregular heartbeat a witness for the prosecution. Back and forth. Back and forth, until I was ready to commit myself, to plead insanity. I could see her sitting at the table, presiding over her guests. Her verdict would be passed down long before I arrive, ready to prostrate myself, begging for mercy. “My only crime is that I love your daughter too much.” No I can’t say that. She will think me emotional and weak. She’s a prosecutor, not God. She doesn’t care for my soul, only my reasoning. She wants me to put forward a solid case for marriage. Why me? Why now? The truth is I don’t know why Tara chose me. She could have picked someone taller, more financially stable, less “emotionally available”, as my psychiatrist calls my tearful outbursts. Best not to mention these little episodes or that I want to take her “Tiara” away from her, somewhere exotic where she will surely catch malaria or be kidnapped for her blue eyes and golden hair. I know I don’t need her permission, but I do covet her approval. All I need now is a strong opening statement, something that will prove I can defend her daughter’s honour, should it ever come to that. Two more steps. One minor mental edit. And I’m up. “What a pleasure to finally beat you Milady.” Oh dear. I think I’m about to become emotionally available again.
