"Where are you from again?" Casanova asked carelessly as he shuffled through a stack of his screenplays. "You'll have to forgive my poor memory, I'm quite drunk."

"Texas," a young and vibrant girl responded.

"Of course," Casanova began, organizing the papers into perfectly neat stacks. "Where the bluebonnet covered hills roll for miles and where the ancient Indian tribes painted the skies."

"What about you?" she smiled up at him.

"Kat, how long have we been working together?" he finished organizing his papers and threw up his hands in triumph. "Voilà. Immaculate."

"About three years," Kat answered. "Why?"

"Why? Because in these three years, you've refused to memorize where I am from," Casanova snapped as he began to light a row of candles which flickered and cast an orange hue upon the pale white canvas of Kat's skin. She hadn't seen the sun in a long time.

"I'm sorry, Cassy," she looked towards the camera as he peered through it at her and gave him a pout. "Tell me again?"

"I was born in California," Casanova began. "When I turned 17, I dropped out of high school." He finished angling the camera to the precise location that he wanted it and he strolled over to the liquor cabinet of his studio. He always had liquor on hand and if it wasn't too socially unacceptable, he had liquor in hand as well. But no matter what, "in" or "on," it was somewhere nearby or it would be somewhere nearby within the next 30 seconds. There was a period of time in which he went without 45 seconds without alcohol and he almost had a nervous break down.

"I know that much," she said.

"Well, by the time I was 18, I had enough money to do a bit of traveling," he chuckled to himself a bit as he poured a glass of Bombay Sapphire gin, his back to her. "So I decided I would live and study abroad and moved to New York City." He took a long sip of his gin and slipped the blue bottle back into the cabinet before turning around to face her, leaning against the counter of the bar.

"It couldn't have been longer than my second week there and it was in the middle of January so all of the water was frozen over," he spoke quietly, with a great amount of fluency in his speech as if he had told the story a hundred times. "I didn't know anyone there and I was hoping to meet somebody so I rented some ice skates and decided I would go skating on one of the frozen ponds in the park." He strolled over to Kat and sat down on the bed next to her but neither of them made any effort to acknowledge each other. In fact, at this point she had stopped listening to his story and he had stopped caring about telling the truth. They were just killing time while waiting for the wax to melt.

"It was a Friday night and it was fucking cold. A record low, in fact. The sky was overcast and because of this, it was prematurely dark at about 4:45. The pinhead meteorologists said that there would be rain. ‘No question about it.' But being the knowledgeable guy that I am, I went out there anyway," he laughed slightly and she giggled on cue. "Of course, no one else was as intelligent as me, so there wasn't a soul out on the ice. Except for one girl. Damn, she was beautiful. For a few moments, I stood there and watched her skate around in circles, pirouetting upon the glassy mirror beneath her feet and the snow began to fall and cascade around her form. I was breath taken."

"Go on," Kat mumbled absentmindedly, almost asleep.

"She was an actress by the name of Scarlet," Casanova sighed with ardent longing as he stood up from the bed, his back to Kat once more. "And she was only alone for a few minutes. Almost immediately, the camera crew and her skating partner were out there with her. Even then, I couldn't take my eyes off her so I tried to perform some mystical movements upon the ice to get her attention and draw her away from the crowd but," he trailed off.

"Well, needless to say, I was drunk. And actually, at the time, I was fucked up on coke too. The second my blade hit the ice, I slipped and slid for what must have been four feet. To this very day, I still don't know if she noticed." He wandered over to the candles and looked down at one, picking it up and tilting it a bit in his hand to watch the melted wax swirl around the wick.

"Anyway, in my drunken haze I eventually skated," he stopped before adding, "Or stumbled over to her and took her by the hand. Without hesitation, the small crowd was in an uproar. I had forgotten that they were recording and I had just fucked up the entire scene. The director yelled something about how I ruined a flawless take, and her macho co-star shouted something in ebonics that I paid very little attention to. In fact, I didn't pay attention to anything except for her. Her natural blonde hair was absolutely stunning and those crystalline blue eyes never left mine as she giggled and pulled me along by the wrist until we were off the ice. The director was berserk and I was ecstatic."

He placed the candle back down and took a short sip of his gin before continuing, "So we kick off our skates and run bare-foot through the fuckin' freezing rain until we're out of breath and we both collapse under a great, big, old elm tree in some fucking park. Silver Meadows? Something like that. Who cares? And immediately she tears off her clothes and we fucked-made love-right then and there. In the snow, in the cold." Kat grinned a bit at his choice of words and then closed her eyes from the pain in her body.

"Then we ran back through all of those trees which were now coated in a heavy amount of snow and finally emerged back on the ice. We were both naked. You should have seen the look on the director's face," he chuckled a bit. "Well anyway, the only time we spoke that night was when I whispered my number into her ear as she left."

"That's a beautiful story," Kat smirked.

"Yeah," Casanova responded. "But I never did find my rental skates. Cost me a good 50 bucks." He walked over to the wall by the bed and ran his fingers across it. "Do you think it would be too much if I were to scribble "B-L-O-O-D" on the wall with red wine Dickens-style?"

"Yes," Kat said with irritation. "I'm getting sore here."

"Of course," he set down his glass of gin and picked her lacy, black thong off the ground and turned his eyes down to the naked girl on his studio bed, hog-tied on her back. "Open wide."

She followed his orders like a good girl and he shoved her thong deep into her mouth, causing her to gag a little bit and then he circled around to the camera, pressed a button upon it and whispered, "Rolling." She fought the tight ropes around her for drama as he picked up one of the candles and hovered over her with it, both of them framed perfectly.

I took the stand. Outside, it was cold but the heater in the old courthouse was broken so I was sweating and looking rather disheveled due to the fact I hadnt slept a wink the night before. I had no idea what I was going to say, or do. I just looked around and spotted a young, professional looking girl sitting quietly at a table, in a wooden chair. She smiled confidently and gave me a thumbs up, as if I was a nervous child before a surgery. But I wasn't nervous and this surely wasn't a surgical procedure. It was justice.

For a moment, I thought about just running away. Then, I thought, that I would look insane if I bursted out of the court room, ran passed the guards and into the street. And how am I supposed to bang my lawyer if she thinks I'm mentally disturbed?

My thoughts then drifted to the night before when she and I were sitting at a mahogany table in her office on the top floor of some anonymous law firm that no one had ever heard of. She had accepted my case pro bono because she and I shared a "common interest".

"What common interest is that, madam?" I asked, as politely as possible. She must have been wondering what year I thought we were living in.

"Natural rights", she said plainly. We left it at that. Actually, I would have inquired further but at that very moment, I felt her foot press between my legs from under the table. I started to understand what she meant by a common interest. I put my hand on her calf and left it there as our eyes met. There was no connection. And so we finished working on my case and I returned home to some dinner. I turned on the T.V. and before I knew it, I had dozed off in my chair.

That night I couldn't help but imagine her. I would sleep lightly for a few minutes (at most 15) and I would dream of her. In one dream, she was a whore and we were in a train station and I asked if she wanted to fuck and she said, "Sure, if you're good in bed", and I said, "Well, I guess I am", and she said, "Then let's go", and we got on a train together and she was suddenly naked and so was I and we fucked like two animals trying to kill each other in the back of the train on its way to Eros; bearing absolutely no moderation and so little regard to each others feelings that it was almost as if we harbored some great ill will to each other. Then I would wake up, fall asleep, and dream again. Soon, they all blended together. I could no longer differentiate between one dream and the next and after a night of this, when I was sure I was awake, I still didn't quite feel real. I felt like I was just a passing whim or a culture in a dish or a mindless body or a virus. I was cancer cutting threads of healthy flesh. I was my unfeeling and distant heart as I made some bitch moan on a train.

"Why did you do it?" demanded someone in the court room. His voice was deep and threatening.

"The sun was in my eyes", I said, detached, as I broke away from my daydream. Maybe if I didn't sound so apathetic, they would believe me.

"The sun was in your eyes", the lawyer repeated. "And where were you going at five in the afternoon?"

"I don't remember", I hesitated. "But I do remember that it was seven and not five."

"Well", the lawyer smiled. "Could you at least tell us which direction you were heading at seven in the evening?"

I thought it over. I remembered leaving my house, getting in my car and backing out of the driveway. I remember distinctly thinking about how lonely I was that morning and wishing that there was someone with me in the passenger's seat. I also remembered driving down my street and getting on the highway. I was heading east, but I couldn't remember where I had planned on going. I guess I hadn't planned on going anywhere.

After a long pause, I said, honestly, "East. I was going east."

"Fair enough", the lawyer began, seeming to switch gears. "And why did you leave the scene of the crime so suddenly?" I looked at the woman sitting at the table, her knees bent inward like Dolores Haze, a childish smile upon her lips. Other than that, she gave me no encouragement. This time, I thought, I could have used it.

"I was scared", I said.

"Scared of what?" the lawyer continued.

"Scared of being called a murderer", I said. "I'm not a murderer. I haven't killed anything in my life."

"You haven't killed anything?" the lawyer looked at me with a fierce fire in his eyes. "Are you claiming to have never stepped on a bug? Have you never slapped a mosquito off your neck or sprayed pesticide on a garden?"

"Well", I began. "I don't have a garden." Shouldnt she be objecting? Why isn't she defending me? Can she read my mind? I wouldn't want to defend me either, if I were her and knew what I was thinking. What monstrous thoughts they were.

"Obviously you are missing the point, sir", the lawyer stated abruptly. "I assert that this man is a compulsive liar."

Finally, the judge slammed down his gavel to stop the lawyer from harassing me. I felt relieved for a moment.

"How can you support that claim?" the judge asked.

"There is no way the sun could have been in this man's eyes if he was traveling due east at seven in the evening", the lawyer stated smugly.

I felt a lump build in my throat. Had I lied? I didn't think so. I could have sworn there was a great, bright light shining directly in my eyes when I felt the thump. It was at that time that my vision dimmed and a great ball of fire flashed before my eyes, blinding me for a moment, and then just burning on, embers spraying everywhere.

All I could see was a short stretch of highway in front of me, and that burning eye in the sky, glaring down at me as if to instill in me some kind of existential suffering. I closed my eyes, but even through my eyelids, I could see the sphere burning, scintillating and everything around me seemed to lose structure. I tried to find the lawyer, to reach out for her and touch her as tenderly as possible and apologize for all the thoughts I had. But she was nowhere to be found. Neither was I.

I felt a certain type of coldness wrap around my arms and my body being jerked around by something I couldn't see, nor hear, nor begin to understand. My perception was shot.

"Oh", I began. "What great poison; what hemlock has God shed upon us now? Where will the two parallel roads meet and what, tonight, will finally put me to sleep?"

Moving this to writing, as it doesn't seem to be poetry, but more of a short story.