The Emerald Lie

“The art of punctuation is of infinite consequence in writing; as it contributes to the perspicuity and consequently to the beauty of every composition.”

This edict of Joseph Robertson was running through Park’s mind like good news. He knew it signaled a return to his former self and his dormant energy. His aunt Sarah had fussed over settling him in the guest room, insisting,

“Rest, you need to rest.”

“No.”

He thought,

“I need to kill somebody.”

And he remembered how the female sergeant had scoffed at his language, had sneered,

“Afraid of a little bad grammar, are we?”

The construction of that sentence infuriated him and the casual way she abused and tore apart the very basics of structure revealed the barbarian she was.

He lay on the bed and ran the rudiments of his favorite linguistics, and running alongside this pleasure was the idea of shutting the Guard’s mouth permanently. He asked aloud,

... “Affect or effect?”

I.e.,

The sergeant was affected by the effect of the hatchet.

Emily was standing in the center of my apartment, so enraged that the pup hid under a chair. Loud voices freaked him; didn’t do a whole lot for me either.

Like this,

“My place was burgled, you believe it?”

Oh, I not only believed; I knew. When she was in full riot, her eyes seemed bright green. She was spitting from anger, continued,

“Going through my private stuff, and you know who did it?”

A question or a touch of rhetoric?

I frowned accordingly. She threw her hands in the air. Spat,

“That cunt cop.”

Whoa...

I asked,

“What?”

“Ridge, the gay bitch, she’s had it in for me since I rubbed her nose in it.”

Had to close this down, said,

“Seriously, I don’t think breaking and entering is part of their remit.”

She spun around, eyes spitting iron.

“Ah, you dumb, deluded sap.”

Couldn’t let that go, said,

“I don’t think they use sap outside of earnest chick lit.”

Then she had a sea change, touched my face, tenderly, her eyes now soft, said,

“Ah, Jack.”

And a lightbulb went on. I realized something.

She

Had

Feelings

For me.

Oh, sweet fuck.

How could I not have seen? The huge framed photo on her wall. Always there for me. As I tried to process this, she asked quietly,

“Jack, can we talk?”

Lord above.

I resolved, in my utter blindness, to let her down easy.

Aw, fuck, the arrogance and sheer stupidity. If only I could blame drink, dope, stress, but no, it was all on me, my total lack of cop on is absolutely appalling. I have no excuse save pure bollix.

Me.

I said (oh, the generosity and sensitivity!),

“Let’s go and have dinner, my treat, and we can talk.”

I cringe as I recall the smugness of my tone.

She said,

“Oh, thank you, jack. I knew you’d get it.”

My name in lowercase there as that is how small I feel now.