Talking to Stanley Tucci About Love by Beth Kilkenny

Stanley sits, still, on the balcony, in the golden hour. The railing of the balcony protects him, or holds him back; prevents him from falling out, or jumping in. Whichever way you want to look at it. (It’s like a prison, Stanley, I think.)

A patchwork of colour is sewn on the railings of the bridge in the middle distance. Padlocks left by lovers passing through. Across the river, there are buildings with dozens of small windows laid out symmetrically, again and again, again and again. There is sun setting behind him, and it casts its glow on everything; the river made Yellow Brick Road, the cloudless sky peachy yellow. Everything is yellow. Or gold, to put it more romantically. You could only find Stanley sitting under cloudless skies bathed in gold.

Stanley.

His head is bald. Entirely Foucauldian, in its glory. It shines with the sun, and, presumably, the oil he has lathered on it after showering. He wears a white dressing gown, collar turned up. His thick, black glasses; his thick, black eyebrows. (You are so handsome, Stanley Tucci.)

His fingers hold a pencil, lightly, as he sketches whatever he can see behind me. He could be sketching me. It’s unlikely, I will concede. Who describes me in this detail? Who looks at me bathed in sunlight? The river, swollen, is flowing fast beneath us. I consider jumping in. (What are you drawing, Stanley? I ask. Do you think a padlock is a true representation of love? Stanley, do you think of prisons when you think of love?)

He puts down his sketchpad, closes over the cover, opens his mouth as if to speak.

………………..

Beth Kilkenny writes mostly poetry and personal essays. She has an MA in Literary Studies. Beth has been published in The Blue Nib Literary Magazine, Selcouth Station and BlueHouse Journal. Beth was a participant in the MumWrite experimental writing development programme funded by Arts Council England.

Twitter: @changedittobeth