For Tammy, on her birthday

1.

He received the first letter on a Thursday. It was simple, white and plain. It had his name written in a scrawl on its face and it was postmarked from Peoria. Inside the envelope was a torn page from a book. He pulls a face, visibly displeased by the action of blatant disrespect towards books. He hates it; the way people just disrespect books by ripping their pages. It’s unnatural and almost blasphemous. Never mind if it’s Foucault or a fucking Harlequin romance book, their pages should never be torn.

There was no other note in the envelope but there was a few hair strands – cut, not pulled. He snorts at that thought. “Like it makes is less creepy and cryptic.” He sets the envelope down the table and opens the folded page. It’s Pablo Neruda.

I CRAVE YOUR MOUTH, YOUR VOICE, YOUR HAIR

Don’t go off, not even for a day, because—

Because – I don’t know how to say it: a day is long

And I will be waiting for you, as in an empty station

When the trains are parked off somewhere else, asleep.

Don’t leave me, even for an hour, because

Then the little drops of anguish will all run together

The smoke that roams looking for a home will drift into me, choking my lost heart.

Oh, may your silhouette never dissolve on the beach;

May your eyelids never flutter into the empty distance

Don’t leave me for a second, my dearest,

Because in that moment you’ll have gone so far

I’ll wander hazily over all the earth, asking

“Will you come back? Will you leave me here, dying?”

He looks back at the envelope on the table, opens it and takes the hair strands out. He touches them with such longing and quietly says “Smart, romantic, poetic woman.”

2.

The second envelope had a postcard in it. It says “Welcome to Mexico!” and had a picture of a beach on it. He flipped it over and it had a note on it, written in her chicken scratch hand writing.

“I tried to get a tan. I just got burned. I tried to drive but I crashed. Crash and burn.”

He laughed. “Stay away from the peyote then.” He shook his head, remembering that he’s talking to a postcard.

3.

The third envelope was bigger. It didn’t have a note but it had a stack of pictures. Random strangers from different walks of life but they were all smiling and held a sign that said “Hi!”.

He thought about what bullshit she had to say to get them to do it. Each photo had a background of New York City. He smiled in spite of himself. He kept the photos on a drawer in his nightstand by the bed. He made a mental note to get all those photos framed after he lays them out.

“It’s cold in New York. Don’t forget your gloves.” He says to the air. He doesn’t think it’s weird anymore. He kind of hopes the air brings the words to her; desperately trying to make a connection with her.

4.

It was a Sunday when he got the next envelope. This time, he never bothered with the pretense that it was just another letter, just another envelope. This time, his fingers were shaking and his heart was about to leap out of his chest.

There were leaves, a Louvre museum brochure, a napkin from a café and a picture of her sitting on a sidewalk just looking out. It was the first photo she sent him and he was quite disappointed it just showed her profile. Another first was an actual letter from her.

Paris is wonderful. It’s exactly how I thought it would be. It’s like things are the same and yet, different here. The air is crisper, like it’s challenging you to do something you never thought you could. The mystery and allure of the lights and the people are hard to resist. Whoever said it’s weakness that drives us to fall into temptation cannot be more wrong. It takes a lot of courage and strength to give in to certain temptations.

I walked around the streets of Paris, trying to breathe in its truth. Let me let you in on what I’ve discovered: I’ve learned that the only way you can find out the secrets of this place is if you’re a tree- unmoving and observant. The leaves keep the secrets and I’m sending some to you. If you can get it to talk, I’ve whispered a few of mine to it.

This photo was taken by a stranger. He says I looked pensive and lonely. He rebuked me; he says nobody should be lonely in Paris. He kissed my cheek and gave me the photo. Do I look lonely? I think I just look pensive. What does he know, right?

Suddenly, he was the one who felt lonely. And jealous. And angry.

5.

Two weeks have passed and there was no letter for him. There were no postcards, no cryptic envelopes with weird stuff in it, nothing at all.

He was on the edge. Wound up tight and stretched to his limit. His thoughts are a dangerous mix of fear, concern and fury. What if something had happened to her? What if she decided that this whole one way communication wasn’t worth it? What if she thought he was a pompous asshole for just waiting and not attempting to reach out to her? What if she decided the amateur photographer in Paris was “The one” and not him?

His daily trips to his mailbox have become a harried task. He was excited that today could be the day he’d finally get something but at the same time afraid to be disappointed yet again if he had to find that mailbox empty. He hit the box with frustrated righteous anger.

“Now, what did that poor thing do to you that it deserved your fist?”

He spun around so quickly that he must’ve deliberately changed the gravitational pull of the world in that half second. She’s there. On his pavement. Smiling like everything’s right in the world. He stood there, drinking her in, like she’s an illusion, an oasis to his desert.

“You’re here.” He breathed.

“Yeah…” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I couldn’t fit in an envelope and the guys at the post office said it would be more comfortable if I rode a plane on a seat than in a sack.”

Anger flared inside him. “What’s with the cryptic semi anonymous letters? You couldn’t stand me writing back?”

She smiled indulgently. “I knew you wouldn’t.”

He wouldn’t. He knew that. Not for the lack of skills but for the lack of courage. Still, it doesn’t make it right. He was angry. No, he was furious. He was angry that she was right. He was angry that she was here, right now when he wanted her three envelopes ago. He was angry that all he could feel was anger when he knew he wanted to do other emotions when he imagined this moment, alone in his bed.3

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

She walked two paces towards him, arms stretched out, as if waiting for him to come head first into it. She smiled indulgently and never took her eyes off him. “I’m supposed to make you feel better. The letters are just an introduction.”

He never could say no to her. So, he did what he always did: Wrapped her in his arms and swore to never let her go.