Page 83 of Returned Mail

I clean myself up and put the photo away, trying to pretend that didn't just happen. It doesn't fucking work, because now I know what it feels like to want her. Not just emotionally. Not just because she's kind, funny, or honest. But physically, and desperately. The kind of want that makes a man stupid.

This morning, I write back to her, or I try.

The first version is too short.

Mia,

Got the picture.

No. I tear it out. The second version is too careful, and the third makes me sound like I’m filing a report. The fourth starts with “You’re beautiful too”, and I stare at it for five full minutes before crossing it out. I want to tell her the truth. The problem is the truth keeps trying to become something I’m not ready to hand her.

Finally, I start again.

Mia,

You wrote “your turn” on the back of the picture. That was rude. Effective, but rude.

For the record, I am happy you laughed at “mostly.” I did regret writing it for about three days, so I’m glad my suffering served a purpose.

Thank you for the picture.

I’m going to say this badly, but seeing you made the apartment feel different in my head. Not gone. Not mine either. Just different.

I recognized the light first, then I saw you.

You looked nervous, and like you were trying not to laugh. That got me.

You called me beautiful, and I’m not sure what to do with that. But I’ve carried it around for four days.

The photo too.

It’s in my notebook.

I’m not going to make this heavier than it needs to be. But I want you to know I’m glad you sent it. I’m glad I know your face now.

My chest tightens. I’m being too honest and not careful enough.

I keep thinking about that window. You standing there now. Me standing there before. Strange how close two people can get to sharing a place without ever being in it at the same time.

My hand stops for a moment, but then I add…

Maybe someday we fix that.

I stare at the sentence.

No, fuck, absolutely not. I cross it out. Then stare at the crossed-out words. They’re still readable. “Fuck”, I should rewrite the page. “Don’t be a coward.” Well, coward or not, I want her to see that I almost said it.

I finish before I can do more damage.

Write when you can.

And stop insulting your cooking. I’m sure the garlic had it coming.

—George

I fold the letter, unfold it, look at the crossed-out line, and fold it again.

I seal it before I can rewrite the whole thing.