Interest
Sometimes she has to feign interest. There are days he gets something stuck in his craw, and doesn't let go. He'll take a subject, no matter how inane, hold it tight in his jaws, shaking it like a dog with a rag doll. His partners before, she knew, always took it the wrong way; they thought he was preaching, flaunting his intellect. It wasn't. What it was, was his way of sharing his knowledge, his enthusiasm. She knew he couldn't fathom the idea that something he thought that interesting could be something she could not give a damn about. Sometimes she can change the subject, or calm his tirade into something controllable. And then there were times that she didn't try either. Mentally exhausted, emotionally spent, she simply let him go while she would inject utterances of agreement, conversational noises she hoped popped up in the right places. She feigned interest.
Judgment
Every one has a past and something within that past that they'd like to keep buried within themselves. Sometimes he feels like a fraud. A hypocrite. Bending the laws of the land, finding the nuances within the spirit of the law, when he couldn't succeed by the letter of the law. Playing chess against the justice system, witnesses, victims, families, his pawns. Here he was, a semi-prominent place within the office that represented, protected even, the citizens of the largest city in the country maybe even the world, and sometimes he felt like a jackass. Secrets don't lie still.
Kings
It was the beheadings that intrigued him at first; he'll admit that to himself, if no one else. And as he began to read and learn more, the exploits of these men fascinated him to the point of obsession. He cut a sword out of thick cardboard, wore a worn towel around his neck as a cape and an upside down bowl on his head for a crown. Jumping and jousting, he would take on anything that dared cross his path, from a stray neighborhood cat to his own shadow. Thrusting his sword tip he'd call out 'take that' as he climbed the back stairs, fighting off the Black Knight as he made his way to the maiden above. Love It confuses him. He loves his mother, and not just because he's supposed to, but because she has a wonderful imagination, and a wicked sense of humor. But he also hates her, just a little; it's her fault everyone else he's ever loved is now gone from him. His father left, he couldn't handle the responsibility of two boys and a sick wife. His brother is as gone as he can be, living in Greece, staying away, hiding. Camille. He loved Camille deeply, but she couldn't cope with the time commitment his mother needed from him, so she too was gone. He loves his mother, but she drives all other love away, and it confuses him.
Manic
To and fro. Up down happy sad. Sit stand walk run. Pace. Back and forth. Pace. Always moving, high pitched, wide open. Imagine you're five. Imagine thinking, assuming, that this was what life was. Imagine your mother waking you up and pulling you out of bed at three on a frozen December morning so you could look at the fireworks. Only you didn't see any. She'd point toward the sky, jabbing her finger hard as she clutched your shoulder with her other hand, trying to force you see what she saw. And somehow you knew her only saving grace was when you lied and said you saw them too. Relief would flood over her face, her grip on your shoulder loosened; the pointing, jabbing finger came down, dropping dully at her side. Did she know you were lying? Was that not relief you saw in her delicate features, but resignation? Were you her last hope of being sane? Then, suddenly she was scolding you for being out of bed and outside in your bare feet. Again she'd clutch at your shoulder, fingertips digging into your flesh, leaving bruises you'd find the next day, as she steered you back into bed. She couldn't even hear your please over her own rants. You finally fall into a disturbed, nightmare filled sleep, only to be awoken again by screams. High pitched, seeming like they would never stop, screams. Glass shatters, dull tings of metal tell you she's throwing pots and pans against the walls. She starts to sob, and you make your way downstairs and she's on the kitchen floor, her body quaking with the sobs. You walk around her, toward the broom, and she grabs your hand. Her hair is wild and is sticking to her face in a couple of places. She snuffles and licks her lips. You try not to meet her eyes, but you fail. And you can see the sane part of her, the one that gets smaller every day. You can see that she knows she's loosing.
N
That word. As often as he's heard it, it still catches him by surprise. It doesn't shock him that a cab driver will pass him and his three piece, going to court, suit to stop for a white man wearing sweats and a torn tee shirt half a block down. That doesn't surprise him. Neither does a waitress who talks to his white lunch companion first, and doesn't even make eye contact with him when he orders. He knows the cab driver and the waitress are thinking that word, but when someone comes out and says it. . . .that's real hatred, and that is what astonishes him; all that hatred from someone he doesn't even know.
Optimism
She has hope. Hope that one day the phone won't ring, and no one will die from anything but old age. She has hope that cures can be found, and stress will cease to exist. She believes that one day every traffic light on her way to work will be green. She sees a future for herself that is full of love and passion, motherhood, friendships, backyard bar-b-q's and summer vacations. She has hope.
Poetry
He considers himself a poet, bet you didn't know it. Doodling down words and phrases that appeal, not knowing what emotions they might reveal. Coming up with rhyme schemes, setting the pace, while at the same time solving a case. When his own words fail, and the bad guy's in jail, he'll sit down to dine, and read is favorite poet, daf9.
