I don’t look like a murderer, do I? According to the State, I am. The newspapers think so. Those empty-headed anchors on the local evening news agree. As for social media, I can’t even. I know the cards are stacked against me.

The killing happened last summer on the outdoor patio at the town’s favorite watering hole. I am not sure how this incident started but start it did. The victim was loud and obnoxious. She was also slappy, something of a biter, and known to hit people with a closed fist. My guess, she had done this before and gotten away with it.

On this evening, she demonstrated every one of her bad traits to perfection, on the wrong man. Her swings were triggered by a warning to shut up. If only she had listened. Anyway, events took their course. In a moment she lay dying on the patio bar floor. Yes, I killed her. I didn’t mean to. That night I had no intention of harming anyone, but I did.

Being accused of murder is horrible, but I didn’t break. I didn’t crack. I held together. It took everything I had but I’ve stayed in one piece. Now, I’m on parade in front of a twelve-person jury.

The prosecutors keep referring to me as “the killer.” Yet, I have an elegant, regal name they refuse to use. Instead, they call me by a name I’ve never heard before. I guess that’s because I’m the champagne bottle that killed that lady. I’m Exhibit A.