Page 72 of Returned Mail

After that, the letters change.

We start talking about everyday things. I tell him about my job, not every boring detail about it, but I tell him that I work in marketing. That my boss says ‘circle back’ on a daily basis, and that I once sat through a forty-minute meeting about the shade of blue in a campaign graphic.

George writes back almost immediately.

Well, it took around ten days, but it felt instant to me.

I have seen grown men argue for twenty minutes about whether a label should say "equipment" or "gear." So either every industry is stupid, or we're all the same species.

I tell him the loft makes weird noises at night.

The third pipe from the left in the bedroom wall knocks when the temperature drops. It used to drive Monica crazy.

Sorry.

I stare at that apology for a long time.

You don't have to apologize for having memories here. I'm the one living inside them.

His answer comes weeks later.

That sentence sat with me longer than I expected. I don't know what to do with that.

The teasing sneaks in first.

I bet you make coffee with enough sugar to qualify as dessert.

I read that three times; it made me giggle because it is true. I do like my coffee sweet, or too sweet according to him.

I bet you drink it black because you hate joy.

I keep his last letter open on the counter for two days because every time I see it, I smile.

Then the honesty comes in around the edges. George never openly dumps emotion onto the page. He leaves it in corners. Between jokes, and under practical details.

Some days are loud.

That's all he wrote once. It’s kinda poetic if I think about it. One sentence at the end of a letter mostly about bad coffee and Mack stealing someone's clean socks as revenge for losing a card game.

Some days are quiet here in a way I don't always like.

It feels too vulnerable, but I send it anyway.

I think we are way past all that now.

We’ve been sending each other’s letters for over a couple of months now.

By now, I know his handwriting better than I know some people's faces. That should concern me. It truly should. But it doesn’t, and it doesn't stop me either.

I know when he is tired because the ends of his words drag. I know when he's trying not to say something because he starts writing about the weather. I know when Mack has annoyed him because Mack's name appears three times on a page, and at least one of them is followed by ‘asshole’.

I know George hates being called old, because he is ‘only thirty-six’. I know he drinks terrible coffee. I know he misses having clean sheets. I know he thinks stars look different when there is no city around.

And he knows things about me too.

He knows I talk to my fridge when I'm overwhelmed, and that I sleep with one leg outside the blanket even when I'm cold. He knows I hate the word fine. He knows Sebastian broke something in me I'm still too embarrassed to name.

I haven’t told him the whole story.