The irony is, I am not a judgmental person, and yet here we are, you (cowed) and I (robed), you telling me about how a night out celebrating your birthday turned terrible, though I know you left out the part about wetting your pants in the back of the police car (it’s in the police report). And I, weighing your fate like a thread across my palm, my scissors heavy, my tenderness for your frailty at war with my disgust for your appalling drunken recklessness. I take 138 seconds to choose mercy, but sternly. You exhale: Thank you, Your Honor.
If not on the bench, Kyra Valentine is probably looking for toads. She prefers nightgowns to pajamas. She aims to offset her awkwardness with mystery.