Et Tu Bruté

Brutus, our multimillion-dollar sign­ing gorilla, slumps behind glass, pin­ing away for my ex-boyfriend, Pete. He hasn’t eaten for days. He shoves all the food we give him to the obser­va­tion win­dow — offer­ing it back to us in exchange for Pete.

Pete’s not com­ing back, and I’ve got­ten used to it.

Brutus draws a policeman’s badge, Pete’s sym­bol, in the dirt of the Outdoor Facility. I want to tell him that Pete broke up with me. I never pushed him away.

Primatologists record every­thing Brutus does to show us he misses Pete. When he draws a badge on the glass with his feces, they say, “Look how he loved him.”

“Shelly, maybe Pete could drop by,” Dr. Jim sug­gests. “Just for an after­noon. You could take the after­noon off if you wanted.”

I feel invis­i­ble. We all want to know of Brutus’s grief, as if we’re bored by the human ver­sion. How blessed to have a team of car­ing observers!

“If you don’t want to write the let­ter, I can,” Dr. Jim says.

Well, it’s unan­i­mous then. Everyone wants Pete.

Honestly, Brutus is mak­ing us write you, I write Pete. He won’t eat. Pete, I’m not ask­ing for me. Just for him. 

This irks me on a deep level. Like I’m beg­ging.

I’m not beg­ging you. One after­noon, then it’s over. Visit a gorilla — save some pri­ma­tol­o­gists. If I were going to ask you back into my life, I’d be more cre­ative than say­ing The Gorilla Made Me Do It.

I pic­ture Pete’s mouth in a smile under his bushy cop mous­tache.

He used to wres­tle with Brutus. Yes, wres­tle. Brutus was gen­tle with him, he knew it was play, and would some­times kiss him softly on the fore­head after he’d worn Pete out. We’re pretty sure Brutus is gay. Jezebel, the female gorilla shipped over from the Primate Institute, is pretty sure he’s gay too. She went back very dis­ap­pointed.

It’ll make your gorilla happy, and every­one here needs a Happy Gorilla.

I pic­ture Brutus giv­ing me a thumbs-up, his leath­ery eye­brows con­spir­a­to­r­ial.

I wish I’d had enough dig­nity to walk out on you first. You called me a “lab rat”! You were embar­rassed to be with me in pub­lic. I can’t believe I tried to be “wor­thy” of your affec­tion, I write. But I crum­ple up the sheet and try again.

Hello, Pete. I’m writ­ing on behalf of Brutus, who is hold­ing a hunger strike in our lab. He’s demand­ing you. Dr. Jim has asked me to write you — see if you’d drop by. It would be good to see you. I erase the last part, sud­denly afraid of scar­ing him off. Again.

I look away to see Brutus flip­ping through a pic­ture album, stop­ping at pic­tures of Pete. He sighs heav­ily. Should I tell him Pete wouldn’t stay? No. I can’t even tell myself.

Pete won’t fall for this, I know.

Maybe I’ll let Brutus smear some feces on the card for empha­sis, for love.