Congratulations on Blanking on Her Name!

“Hm,” you’ll say into your hands, crossed in front of your mouth. You’ll be chewing your bottom lip behind them, occasionally running your tongue along your teeth, trying to figure out just what the hell is going on in your own head. The police will be standing behind the folding table, guns in their holsters, badges slung around their necks. They’ll look very, very tired. After several days of dealing with you, it’s tough to blame them.

In front of you, behind a two-way mirror, an array of women will stand. They’ll all be middle aged, white, and they’ll all look incredibly, righteously pissed. They’ll be wearing sweatpants and sweatshirts and they’ll have their hair in ponytails.

You’ll spot the perpetrator in a matter of seconds: it’ll be the third one from the right. But there will be one problem: you won’t be able to remember her name. You’ll inform the detectives in charge of the investigation.

“I know which one it is, but I can’t recall her name.”

One of the cops will look at her partner, who will be shaking his head and tugging on his beard. He’ll have been doing that a lot over the last week and a half.

“That’s not really an issue, sir,” the lady cop will say.

“I don’t want to do this halfway,” you’ll mumble, swatting your hand at her with absentminded gracelessness.

She’ll move towards you like she’s going to punch you, raising her fist and taking two steps, but her partner will grab her shoulder before she gets close enough to take a swipe at you. You won’t notice the movement behind you, you’ll be so transfixed by the woman standing in front of you, a wisp of hair hanging down in front of her face, murder in her eyes just like the night you saw her with that gun in her hand when you were leaving that party.

You got her name from one of her neighbors, and then you forgot it. Now you’re worried that you’ll come off as rude after you finger her for the murder of that middle aged fellow who seemed absolutely horrified of her as he begged for his life at her feet.

“It’s on the tip of my brain,” you’ll mumble at the cops, rapping your knuckles on the table while you think. The cops will be silent behind you, each of them considering, inside their own head, how best to endanger you while you’re in the witness protection program. Neither of them will come up with a good method for getting you killed, which will be too bad, because you’re a waste of a person.

Congratulations on Blanking on Her Name!