It was unexpected.
It was the summer. He went to the mail with no expectations. At first the cacophony of color flooding out his mailbox proved him
right. An assortment of junk mail
telling him of the incredible savings he was missing at a Grocery Store he
never went to seemed to prove his case.
Yet amongst the cards and shifting colors one white envelope stood out. He was shocked. Now it wasn’t the color of the card that made
his eyes grow wide, no, it was the writing upon it. It was from her.
As he glanced at the script his
excitement grew. In elegant cursive the cat
and mouse game of correspondence was to be continued. He shouldn’t be surprised; he was the one who had started
it. He had written her. Using every part of the card, envelope
included, he had written. So desperately
had he longed to talk to her, even if was only through scribbles of lead, then
that would be the way that he would have to scratch out his message. Why so desperate? In his writing he
could be with her… even if it was only through his writings. Of course he would try on the sly to see if
she was interested. This is what he had
hoped, but this is what he had feared.
It was still so unexpected… though it
shouldn’t have been.
This was the way their correspondence
worked, he was supposed to write her, and she was supposed to write back. Through this series of interrupted conversations
they could be together; a seeming seamless way for two bound by an earnest
desire for connection. The belief that
two hearts could embody the same soul was a zealous hope.
So there it was. The letter.
Looking at only the face of the envelope he imagined the earnest grace
of her hand as her mind searched and scrambled for the bon mot. The letter inside carried the tension of
saying what you wanted to say, but careful not to say too much. How could he read this unwritten into her
words? Well his letters to her was a similar walking of a tightrope. A delicate balance of just the right
level of the cavalier philosopher to be able to speak right to the edge…
without saying too much. Sad thing was that
it was always the too much that left unsaid that both sides desperately
wanted to say. Ahh but the fun of excruciating joy. The trick was writing
always so that the line closer to the unsaid was approached. So that its broach could be inferred and
desperate in the hope that the other would read the built in inference
correctly.
Oh, and by the way… both sides did.
But…
It was still so unexpected.
As almost as unexpected as the whiff of
perfume that hit his nostrils as he brought the envelope closer. What should he do? Like always, give
people what they really want, and it scares the heck out of them. But the Rubicon had been crossed. He had opened the envelope. Included in the envelope was a gift. She knew how the band had influenced him, and
he knew how much U2, who had drawn inspiration from the album had been
influenced by the album. Though he cherished
the album, he does all the more as it was a representation of her.
The album was Exile on Main Street.
As soon the album began to play, he saw
the confident half smile. The continual
wink of her eyes that hinted at the fierce intelligence that burned
within. The want to see, to feel, to
know… to be. Cascading ringlets brushed
from her cheeks, though she had recently cut her hair short in a savage stunning
style that reflected so much. Her
beauty, her brains, her essence, her everything that drew him to her. She continues to burn as fierce. Though denied by some, her vibrancy remains
forever flowing under ready at a moment’s notice, or hidden in a sly smile, to
erupt. As he listened he longed for just one
drink...
From her loving cup.
As was to be expected.
