Gabriella Brand

When Superpresent, A Magazine of the Arts, called for writing on the theme of truth, I immediately thought of the Picasso quote…”Art is a lie that makes us realize truth.” My flash fiction piece “Small Claims” is pure fiction. But I had a couple of epiphanies about an old relationship as I was writing it. And yes, one of my recurring characters appears here.

Read it here: https://superpresent.org or below:

Small Claims

Derrick didn’t break and enter. He used the key. I’m sure of it. The key that I had given him when we were first together, three years ago. We had exchanged house keys, mine on a leprechaun keychain, his on a utility carabiner. After the break-up, I grabbed the few things that I kept at Derrick’s house, threw the carabiner onto the kitchen counter, and roared out of there. I think I put the Volkswagen in second and didn’t change gears until I was on I-91.

Yes, I left. Not because I wanted to. But because Derrick had said he was bored. Bored with us. Bored with us in bed. Bored with us on the weekends. Bored in general. I guess the relationship had been iffy for some time, but you know how it is. You make do. You patch. But it felt insulting, the way he said it. And I guess I was trying to call his bluff by walking out so dramatically. Make him come after me.

But he didn’t.

He rolled over and put a pillow over his head while I clattered plastic hangers trying to make as much noise as possible.

A week later it dawned on me that Derrick had not returned the key to my house. Nor had I remembered to ask for it. He managed to return other stuff, though, hanging a Target bag full of my toiletries on the mailbox. (He didn’t come by when I was home, of course.) He also left my Rossignols and my boots, splayed like a ski accident, right there in the snowbank on the driveway, so that my retired neighbor, Mr. Huffy, noticed and picked them up. Derrick could have left the key at the same time, but he didn’t.

After Derrick and I split, I listened to Gloria Gaynor on repeat, and meant to change the locks. I never got around to it. It’s a small town and Mr. Huffy is always watching my house.

Derrick and I had been apart for maybe three months when I came home one day and found my television gone. I could see the outline of where it had been on the wall. A Samsung, flat screen, a gift from Derrick. I don’t watch TV very much, but we used to alternate houses on the weekends, and Derrick’s idea of a Saturday night was a bowl of popcorn with brown sugar and the remote control in his right hand. Netflix, sports, even cooking shows.

I made do, as I said.

I’m sure that Derrick took the TV.

In addition to the missing TV, my bureau drawers were turned upside down and dumped. Sweaters and balls of socks were on the floor, my earring tree was overturned. I suspect that Derrick wanted to make it seem as if robbers had entered.

I asked Mr. Huffy if he had seen anything, but he had gone in for a hernia operation and hadn’t been home.

I tried calling Derrick, but he didn’t pick up. I drove over to his house and knocked on the door. No answer. I kicked the screen door and leaned on the doorbell.

Then I went over during the day, while he was at work, and looked through both his mail slot and the front window. I could see his own TV on the wall opposite the couch. Bigger than mine, maybe 75 inches. He must have put my TV in his bedroom. I crept around the back of the house and hoisted myself up on a wobbly lawn chair. But the blinds were closed.

I was sure my TV was in there.

By the time I took Derrick to Small Claims Court almost a year had passed, the little Samsung was maybe worth two hundred dollars on Auction Ninja, but it was the principle of the thing.

Derrick said he didn’t take the TV.

I said he did.

Derrick said that, in any case, even if he had taken it, the TV was legally his.

He insisted that the TV had been a loan.

I said it was a Christmas present.

He said that we didn’t exchange Christmas presents because I refused to do so.

I acknowledged that I had only said no Christmas gifts after year two, when I had given Derrick an expensive chef’s knife that he had seen on The Food Network, and he had only gotten me some body lotion in a packaged set, adding that my feet needed to be pumiced, but I’d have to pay for that myself.

The judge seemed to think that it was possible a third party had stolen the TV.

Had I called the police?

At that point, I had a small outburst.

Derrick seemed to smirk. I started to make a crude gesture, but quickly pretended that I was wiping my nose.

The judge called me to the bench. She talked to me as if I were a Middle Schooler and she were a school principal. She even asked me if I were still in love with Derrick.

“No, I’m certainly not in love with him,” I said, feeling the heat of embarrassment rising on my neck.

The judge implied that I had not asked Derrick to return the key because I was hoping he would stop by and renew the relationship.

That was so not true.

I asked her to stop playing therapist.

She did not take that well.

Derrick smirked again.

I went back to my seat and after a pause, the judge announced the case closed. She ruled in favor of the defendant.

For a minute, I got confused and whooped. I thought I was the defendant, but then it dawned on me….of course, I was the plaintiff.

But, honestly, sometimes it’s not clear. Who is defending, who is complaining, what it means to own property, what it means to be in a relationship, how to tell who is still in love, how to tell who is bored.

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