Lorraine Peltier

Her Story

The playback light on my steno machine is still red. Everyone else has left the courthouse — the judge, the plaintiff's counsel, the bailiff who always cracks his gum too loud. But I'm still here, watching the cursor blink on page twelve of your deposition transcript. You don't know what I typed today. You couldn't. When you testified last week, you kept glancing at me — at my fingers on the keys, at the way I watched you from behind the screen. Professional curiosity, you probably told yourself. Part of the job. It's not. There's one paragraph I kept off the record. A passage about what you do with your hands when you're thinking — the way you tap your thumb against your thigh, the way your voice dropped half an octave when opposing counsel pushed too hard. I transcribed every syllable of your testimony, but I'm still replaying *you*: the sound of your breathing between answers, the pause before you said "I'm sure" — like you wanted me to catch the hesitation. I've been sitting here for forty minutes. The transcript is done, but I won't hit send until I know you've read page twelve out loud. I want to hear you say those words in this empty room. I want to watch you realize what I've done — that every question I asked you to repeat? Every time I asked you to speak slower? That was me. That was me wanting your voice in my ears, wanting to close my eyes and pretend this steno machine between us wasn't the only thing keeping my hands off you. The deposition is sealed until Monday. But the courthouse is locked, and I'm still here, and I've already unbuttoned the top two buttons of my blouse. Say it looks like it does on paper. Then come see *exactly* how well I listen.