Pause. Play.

Court rooms are too air-conditioned.

pause.

He shrugs on a heavier court, settling in behind the lawyer who wears too much perfume and has dyed her hair a shade of blonde that prostitutes would be ashamed of.

play.

"Your Honor, if it please the court, I move to adjourn until 1:00.”

pause.

Is she crying? Is that a tear in her solemn, stony face? He wonders if she will notice or if she will pretend like it does not exist.

play.

Men and women rise, bowing their heads as they wait for His Honor to leave the courtroom. He shuffles with a slow ache and a world weariness, as bored with the proceedings as those who have gathered to wait their turn in the lobby outside. Marriages have ended under much swifter circumstances, and no doubt he is wishing that these were one of those. He does not see the family breaking, the broken promise. All he sees is an obstacle between him and his lunch break.

Pathetically typical.

pause.

Who is that she’s calling? Jenna? Delia? One of her multiple groupie friends who were only too happy to conclude that he was a lackadaisical husband. The kind that came over to his house on Saturday nights and drank wine on the porch around a bonfire while they pretended they’d done something with their lives. The kind, with their country clubs and yachts and pearls, who thought they had the world to complain about. The kind he’d shared a secret smile with his wife over as he passed by to get to the kitchen. A warm glance, a coy wink told him those kinds of evenings saved the best for last.

There was no best now.

play.

The lunchroom is a tired space that looks as washed out as he feels. He takes a seat without much enthusiasm, looking around. It is even colder in here than it was inside the maple-paneled courtroom. He shudders and pulls his coat tighter. He’s been accused of being a wuss; he was merely a Georgia native. Cold like this was manufactured, not naturally occurring. He could remember the way she laid her head on his shoulder when he’d say that, the flirtatious smirk before she pressed her lips to his and he forgot about all cold.

pause.

She stands in the doorway of the lunchroom, blue eyes sweeping the scene. One hand lays on the necklace around her neck. He curses to himself. No doubt it belongs to some wealthy new boyfriend. Some people moved on easier, it would seem. It’s pearl too - her favorite. He remembers the way she draped her long legs over the lab desks freshman year, with a casual disregard for the teacher’s indignant looks. He remembers the way she bent over her lab homework and doodled butterflies, her “symbols of liberation”. He remembers knowing then and there that she was the woman he’d marry.

play.

She takes a seat across the room with her lawyers. There is to be no communication between them that is not supervised. He supposes that she has called their children. Their five year old daughter can not understand and their ten year old son will not want to understand. He lowers his head to the table and closes his eyes, recalling the last time he saw their faces, saw the laughter in their eyes. He recalls his daughter’s words the last time he saw her: “why is it like this, Daddy”.

He does not have an answer, much as he wishes he did. He shakes his head solemnly instead and reaches down into the bag he brought. He has since learned how to feed himself.

pause.

That was the first thing, wasn’t it? The times he’d come home and there was no food, the anger that raged in her eyes, the rebellion. She hadn’t signed up to be a housewife. He remembers her paint-stained hands on her hips, the frustration in her eyes as she stood back from an easel that he kicked insolently.

“Get your own dinner,” she’d shrug.

He remembered the way his stomach dropped, the way he’d grabbed her, the way they’d wrestled and ultimately ended in a tangled heap of limbs, lips locked in an embrace.

It had only worked once.

play.

“You’d think they’d just get it over with. I just lost an hour of sleep as is.”

One of the men who sit next to him groans, pulling the handkerchief from his pocket and rubbing weary eyes. The lawyer turns to his client.

If he’s hoping to arouse conversation from the man, he is sadly mistaken. He is more than content to bear holes into the back of his wife’s head, hoping that she will turn, hoping that she will regret. Hoping against all hopes that she will come back, hands clasped together in a plea. Who knows; he can be a forgiving man.

pause.

Her art exhibition. He’d turned a blind eye to the paper left on the table. It was a work day and someone had to pick the kids up from school. He couldn’t do both. He’d kissed her cheek, though she was unreceptive, and reminded her that it was only “once”.

Only once.

play.

 The clock chimed.

Time to return. Time to submit.

Time to wish that memories could suffice.

He rises and so does she. Their fates are invariably linked together.

pause.

They stand in front of the doors. If they go in, there will not be a “they” to come out, of that he is certain. He is certain. He cannot look into her eyes, they are cast down and away from him. Always looking to the horizon. She clutches her bruised wrists tight to her body and something inside her seems to make her walk folded in. The artistic spirit in her has been broken by time.

By him maybe.

He reaches forward. He may never again be able to touch her.

He pauses.

He could not force her to want to be what he desired, no matter how hard he tried. He cannot make her be that now.

play.

She looks up at him.

There is no reconciliation in her eyes. She looks at him as her captor. She turns her head. One art show. One kiss. One meal.

One court ruling.

One ring.

The judge shuffles into his seat and sighs through the proceedings. Time is paused and played, left on a loopy shuffle that draws it out. But there is nothing to be done about the verdict.

“Court adjourned.”

pause.

He looks. Is she victorious? Triumphant? If she is sad, there is no tear. Her head is lifted, her chin is forward.

He sighs; he stands.

There is nothing to be done.

Something light brushes against his hand and he looks down to see a piece of notepaper. Sharpie has heavily sketched out a profile - his own, if he were to make a crude guess. It is a good likeness, though he does not like the harsh angles, the furrowed expression, the possessive clutch of his coat.

It is a picture of liberation, with only a butterfly at the corner of the page.

play.