“I love her more than anything,” you said into the iPad six-inches from your face. Alone, leaning against the wall of the Legion, you made your defense to whoever was on the other side of the tablet. Even with your head hung low and the heartbreak creasing your face, I didn’t believe you. The seconds it took to walk past you were enough to build a case: the headphones around your neck rumbled with incorrigible dubstep; your shoelaces laid untied—limp but responsive, like the deflated arms of a blow-up sex doll. The final strike of the gavel was your lips that smacked audibly with each chew of bubble gum. These facts lead me to doubt the sincerity behind the defense of your love. And while I’m still not sure of the context of your statement, I am sure that all of the crime dramas I’ve been watching lately have taught me to trust my gut, no matter how much beer I’ve had.