September 5, 2010.

I

What were you thinking
that split-second before
you pulled the trigger
of your Walther PBK?

II

Your wife is in the living room. She’s crying, holding onto stacks of paper full of numbers you can’t seem to process. You sit beside her to tell her things are going to be okay. You’ll sell the car; you’ll find a way. She slaps you across the face and throws the papers at you. Since when did God become so cruel?

III

Why did you choose
the mouth over the heart?

Was it a decision made
over coffee this morning?

Did you decide on it as you
climbed the stairs to
your rooftop?

IV

You’re all over the news in this town. Everyone wants to know why and how. Why. There are speculations, but no one really knows for sure. How. Some are suggesting foul play while some are simply nodding their heads. They don’t know. Nobody does. And yet. Everyone is talking like they’re experts on the matter. I never took you for the kind of person to give up. Your campaign jingles were hopeful and happy. You always had a smile on your face.

V

Water flowed through
your nose, ears, and mouth.

The helpers gasped at the
unbelievable sight of you—

broken, yet so at peace.
They wailed as if someone,

some god would hear their
shrieks and help them.

But even God knew clearly
there was nothing
he could possibly do.

VI

Life is hard in this country, you said. But I will do what I can to help make your lives better. The crowd roared and you felt their love. There was not a doubt in everyone’s minds that you would win. And you did.

VII

What was in your mind when
you grabbed tiny Walther PBK
and blew your
head
into
pieces?

I am Sita. A perfectly normal human being. Every single day, I wake up, wash my face, clean my mouth, cleanse my body, free my self from the dust and dirt of yesterday.

In the office, I sit and process meaningless words and numbers in my head, then I make my machine process them. I print them on hundreds of cut trees thoughtlessly. It’s work. I function like a more sensitive, more emotional, more erratic version of the computer. I cry about this monotonous life on the way home, while in the tube or a bus. Such is my life.

Then came him one day. His desk was right in front of mine which gave me a little motivation to go to my miserable workplace everyday. He became an incentive, the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. I became the foolish girl running after a wild horse. I was destined to get trampled on and I didn’t care. It was exciting to me to finally put something at risk. Such is my life.

The inevitable happened and I was more or less unsurprised. He left the dismal place and moved on to greener pastures while I stayed behind, like I had a choice, and wallowed in my sadness.

In the office, I sit and process these stupid words and numbers in my head. I am full of them—stupidity and meaninglessness. I print them without a care in the world on hundreds of unfortunate trees. It’s work, as usual.

Then I remember him. I stare at his old desk, now occupied by a woman twice my size but with half my patience and none of his appeal. The tears run down my face, forming a tiny waterfall. I wipe it away, afraid to get the papers wet.

Such is my life.

Last summer, everyday, I sat across from you in the library where you used to go to read. Across from you, I stared and admired you. You didn’t know me then, and you still don’t know me now, but I loved you.

Through the covers of the books you read and the pile of books you took home each day, I got to know you. I listed almost all of them down and read them, treating each piece of literature like a fragment of you. I loved all the books you loved, and hated all the books you hated. I thought those beautiful words connected us, made a bridge between us.

By the third week, I was ready. I sat across from your favorite table and waited. I was ready to talk to you. I had read enough of the same books and had prepared enough questions to ask and things to say to keep the conversation going forever. I had visions of us, in a garden, on a swing, reciting wondrous words to each other. I was writing a novel in my head about you and I, a magnificent love story of two highbrow fools who found love in a library, within the bounds of thousands of books written by people who were once great lovers, too.

Then you came in and you sat down across from me. The girl with the hazy eyes placed herself beside you. She did what I had always pictured myself doing, which is talk to you.

You talked, laughed, and eventually left together. From then on, I sat across from you no longer.