Something in My Eye: Stories Read Free

jacks and that apparently clue-ridden song, I opened my eyes just as he began disrobing. He stood there, in his glory, for several minutes, until I told him to get in the shower or risk getting me a little hot under the comforter. I’m sure you know how well-proportioned Buddy is—you have access to medical records, correct?”

    â€œYes, but this is news to us that the two of you had a relationship.”
    â€œOh, not at all,” I said. “We were perfect platonic roommates. Only it had been a good number of months since I’d had a chance to ravish someone, so I was definitely ready to go. I’m sure everyone here can relate.”
    The room went silent. I looked down to see what I had written on my palm, but discovered that my pen had exploded—my hands were smeared all over with ink and nothing legible remained.
    â€œWe are,” they said, “so deeply saddened by the . . . events yesterday, that it seems impossible, at this moment, to either empathize or fail to be offended by your sentiment.”
    â€œMay I ask a favor?”
    â€œYou may.”
    â€œI’m feeling a little tickle in my lungs as I talk, and if it isn’t too much to ask, I’d like a towel to expel the culprit into.”
    Then the door opened and one of them left. We all sat in silence. Some cried silently, shifting the cameras away from me and onto themselves, while into the cameras they mouthed the word “why?” over and over. Then the door opened again, and someone in white entered, making his way down the aisle. He placed the towel on the table. With a clean finger I drew it to the table’s edge, picked it up, coughed several times into it, and then, when it was safely in my lap, used it to clean the ink.
    â€œBetter?” they said.
    â€œI think so,” I said.
    â€œThough it pains us to ask this,” they said, “you became aroused by Buddy’s display?”
    â€œThat would be putting it lightly.”
    â€œAnd though it perhaps breaches matters of good taste,” they said, “did you act on these feelings of arousal?”
    â€œI touched myself beneath the covers after he entered the shower,” I said, which was a lie. In truth, I had taken him in the
shower, and he had cleaned every area unreachable to me. It was not the first time; we were practically strangers. It was just something we did once in a while.
    â€œDo you value your life?” they asked.
    â€œCertainly,” I said. “I’d like to accomplish many things before I die. I’d like to see a solar eclipse or perhaps the northern lights, and/or hunt a grizzly. There are others, but I don’t imagine you’re interested in them.”
    â€œDoes it worry you that, in light of these new revelations, you might be charged with aiding and abetting the perpetrator of this . . . ?”
    â€œThose who charge me would be mistaken,” I said, and I was being truthful again. “He clearly led a double life. It’s not so rare. But let me just say this, atrocity aside: the Buddy I knew was smart, intelligent, playful, funny, mischievous, playful, easy-going, sensitive, playful, and considerate.”
    â€œWhat time did he exit the shower?”
    â€œNine-fifteen.”
    â€œWhat time did he leave the apartment?”
    â€œAround ten-thirty.”
    â€œAnd the . . . , excuse us, was committed at eleven o’ clock. Did you have any more interactions with him in the forty-five minutes after he left the shower and before he left the apartment?”
    â€œYes,” I said. “He dressed, put on his backpack, and stood beside the breakfast table where I sat watching television.”
    â€œDo you remember what program you were watching?”
    â€œIt was the news.”
    â€œAnd what was being reported?”
    â€œSomething certainly paling in comparison to the atrocity,” I said. Seeing that my use of the word really was affecting them, I