"How're you feeling?" He smirked, and I got the sudden, insatiable urge to leap over this railing and strangle the life out of this man. This man who stood for all his client represented: a liar, a conman, a murderer. An urge, but, I repeat, an insatiable one at that. For if I did break countless laws by leaping over this railing and strangling the life out of this man, and then dash for his client, hoping to pummel him to oblivion with my bare hands before the bailiff had known what had happened; for even if all this happened, I would still have lost her. Standing over this man's dead body, I would want only to kill him all over again.
And so, I replied, "Excellent."
"Excellent?"
"That's right."
The lawyer looked, in disbelief, around the courtroom, "Today you stand accused of the rape and murder of your girlfriend of three years and you're...excellent? I must admit that's disturbing." I took a deep breath and eased my clenched fists.
"No, today I stand falsely accused of the rape and murder of my fiancè of two weeks. I am excellent because I believe in the American penal system and I trust with all my heart that justice will be carried out, and this man will get the punishment he deserves." I pointed at the plaintiff, my hand shaking.

The lawyer went on to ask me countless questions regarding motives, alias's, past depression issues, rage tendencies, possible drinking addictions, and other numerous tendencies of a man gone wrong. It was at this moment that time seemed to slow for me. The lawyer was on the second word of his second to last question. I would answer this next question on autopilot, and would not be fully present in this room until the gavel once again stripped me from my thoughts. I began to think of her as he condemned me.

My first thoughts were of how we met. She, an art major "finding herself" in Paris and me, a bohemian young adult mistaking himself for a fully grown man. Cliche enough, we met outside a French cafe and stopped to have coffee. She said something or other, and I replied with this and that, and before you could even roll your eyes and scoff we were madly in love. Sure, there was a lot in between the light conversation and the insatiable love, but no one really cares about the middle. The honeymoon before the honeymoon-phase. The time in between really calling a person your partner, in which you revel in each little secret or fun fact you discover about them. When you get to ask such tedious questions as their favorite ice cream or season. If they like scary movies, if they love thunderstorms. That's the boring crap, so I'll spare you, no thanks necessary. I recall a night during which all we did for three straight hours was dance. Some swing, some ballroom, and some just good old movement that I'd rather not describe for fear of laughing out loud in this courtroom. It was the sort of dancing you do alone when no one's watching. This, truly, is how I felt with her. I acted as I would if I was completely alone. There was no embarrassment had, no explanations needed, and no judgment given. We tried new and expensive wines, not being experts in the least. We ate cheeses, not knowing the difference between gouda and brie on our best of days. We laughed, not laughing at anything in particular. The money wasted on frivolous items was worth it just for the sake of the memory. I felt...I felt as if I knew something wonderful was coming. Like a smell, or a sound. Imagine, if you love breakfast, waking up in the morning and smelling eggs and bacon cooking, hearing them sizzle on the pan. Picture yourself, if you're fond of the rain, sitting on a couch reading a book, when you hear the faint rumble of approaching thunder in the distance. This is how I felt every time I heard her footsteps coming my way, or caught her distinct smell as fell asleep. She was my approaching comfort, always exciting me for what was to come with her arrival.

After a year in Paris, neither of us had any sort of future planned. I had dropped out of college in my senior year and she was still trying to put her art degree to use the way she thought seemed best. We traveled for a year, seeing every pretty place we'd ever seen a picture of. It was during this time that we got past being sole lovers and discovered something even deeper. One night, in a bar in Tunisia, we met a man who could hold his liquor down extremely well. We started a drinking contest to see who could pass out, throw up, or forfeit last. She won, of course, and we spent the rest of the night talking about everything from our favorite colored cows to life after death. At one point, she had gone to the bathroom and it was just me and the man. He asked me who my best friend was just as she was returning to the table. I looked right at her, and she looked at me, not knowing what was being discussed. She sat down, asked, "What?" and the man and I laughed. He had my answer, and weeks later she told me he had asked her the same thing, and she too realized she'd been inseparable with her best friend for the past year and a half.

We settled in Croatia, living in a small cottage on the coast of the Adriatic Sea. After a year, I proposed, and she accepted. Two weeks later, we returned to America to deliver the news to our families in person and have the wedding in a small chapel in Maine. In a hotel outside of Cleveland, on the way to the first stop of telling my parents the big news, my wife heard a knock at the door while I was in the shower. I came out of the shower to find a scene I don't care to repeat. All I'll say is the sounds I heard. Her sobbing, the sound of his zipper closing after having finished his work, my fist connecting with the back of his head, his knife slicing the skin of my arm, a lamp crashing against my head, and the sound of police sirens outside our window as I came back to consciousness. The man, whatever his reasons for his actions, had cleaned up well. He'd put her fingerprints on the lamp and knife, making them seem like tools for self defense. We'd been out of the country for three years, and hadn't been in much contact with any of our family members since having returned. Her parents had gotten few and vague emails of her meeting a man and getting very close with him, and that was all. For all that could be told, I kidnapped, raped, and strangled my this woman, my fiancè, before passing out and awaking to my rights being read.

And now I sit here in the courtroom, two months later. After all that time in my cell, awaiting my hearing, I poured over hotel logs, security footage, and witness testimonials from hotel staff. One night, seeing that a house maid had claimed to see a man enter the room before the screams were heard and getting a hold of her, she described to me what he looked like. I found him entering the hotel through the security camera facing the parking lot, and I called my lawyer. After weeks of harassment, the man threatened to sue, which I encouraged, hoping this would lead to my redemption. Her murderer came to see me in jail, and upon seeing him, I sprinted across the room and slammed his head into the wall. He sued. And now, with his lawyer beginning his last and obvious question, I thought of how I'd answer. I thought of the past three years, of her. How could I convince anyone of anything when all I had to go on was my word, my memories? How could I simulate the way she would look up from resting her head on my chest just to smile and hold me closer. How could I explain the way she kissed, describe the way she smelled, or put into words the way she made me feel.

At the same time, and at the worst possible time, I thought of all the bad memories too. I remembered all the times I had made her cry. All the times she made me bloody my fist from punching walls. All the silences when neither of us wanted to be the weak one and speak first. I looked down at my lap as the lawyer neared the question mark of his sentence. I looked down as I recalled our screams of rage, our nights of stifled cries and trembling anger, and our monumental misunderstandings. I looked up as the gavel once again pounded the sounding block, the judge attempting to get my attention. He said, "Answer the question."
The lawyer repeated,  "I ask again: tell me, under oath, did you kill this woman?"

I looked at his lawyer. I looked at her murderer. I looked at my lawyer. The jury. My parents. Her parents. I looked back at his lawyer.

"No."
Then, that lawyer gave the most difficult command up until that point. He said, "Convince me."

There was a deafening silence in the room as I thought. My mind raced, my palms sweat, my heart hammered. I closed my eyes and the strangest thing happened: I saw her. I saw her outside of a French cafe. I saw her slow-dancing with me. I saw her shoving exotic cheeses into her mouth and washing it down with wine we couldn't afford. I saw all the places we traveled to. Our cottage. Yes, I heard our screams of rage, but I then heard our screams of joy as we stood atop a sailboat and dolphins did acrobatics around us. I recalled our nights of stifled cries and trembling anger, just before remembering our much, much greater number of nights of stifled giggles and trembling lips as we tried and failed to not smile. Our monumental misunderstandings, and colossal cuddling sessions as we made up. Just before I opened my eyes, I saw her, looking up from resting her head on my chest, and smiling.

I opened my eyes, and spoke.

"I once heard that if you love something, let it go. Well, I never planned to let her go. She was taken from me, and nothing I do will ever bring her back." I looked at the murderer, and sighed. "Nothing I do will bring her back." I repeated softly. "This man suing me killed my fiancè, and I could talk about justice, about morality, or reason. But all I can say in my own defense is that if you knew this girl, you would never accuse anyone who spent three years with her of murder. After an hour of meeting her, you're hooked. All you want to do is sit there and talk to her. You only want to tell her every thought that's ever stumbled through your head, and listen to her say anything and everything she can think of. She's so friendly, so exuberant, however, that she's constantly got to be somewhere else. This only makes you want to spend more time with her, and after a month, you find yourself wondering what you did all day before meeting her, if not spend all day thinking about her. Then, after three years of being with such a girl, her heart stops beating. Her laugh is silenced. Her skin turns cold, and her smile is forever wiped from this life. This man was in the same room with her for all of about 20 minutes. If any of you could possibly imagine this girl, who would dare to take such a rare and epic thing of beauty away from this world before it was her time? For all her perfections, for all her imperfections, she's a part of my happiness, always, and even today. Please do the right thing."

I slumped back in my chair, and two hours later the trial ended, the verdict having been given.

As I stood in the rain outside the courthouse, a free man, I looked up to the skies. I smiled. Wherever up there she was, she smiled back. I knew it. From the moment I met her, my last slow dance was always saved for her, my corniest jokes were always for her eyes to roll at first, my ugliest inner demons were hers to cast away without even trying, and my tightest embraces were for none other. I spoke to myself, in the rain, smiling up at the skies that day after my hearing.

Here's something along the lines of what I said, "Not a day goes by that I don't wish you were still here. Even so, 'life moves on', I guess they say. I'm not convinced that we all have a destiny, and you were meant to go when you did, and I was meant to stand here how I am, but I'm also not sold on the idea that this doesn't have meaning. You changed me, and all I can do is take all the good you offered and turn it into something even greater. I'm not going be the guy to constantly look up at the sky and talk to his dead girlfriend, so I guess this is it. I get that sounds harsh, but I'm talking more for myself than to you, so it's not really fair anyway, is it? You were the best of me, and now that you're gone, half of my best attempts will have to do. So long, I'm so honored to be the man to have held you. Goodbye."