I know you are reading this. Actually, I can see you reading, see you through the window behind the building of your condo. Your lovely condo. You will go to that window shortly, and pull back the drape to see me. Do you? It’s probably too dark.
And you are too curious.
You go back to the letter, suspecting, quite rightly, that it isn’t a love letter. It won’t be a love letter you know because why would I write what I have declared several times directly to you? “You’re emotional, that’s why,” I can hear you thinking. “In some magazine you were told to surprise your lover with a surprise note declaring your love.”
And yet, you know that’s probably not the case. You know I hate cliches and I don’t read advice columns; in fact, I rather hold them in contempt. Contempt. That’s a word I borrowed from you, what you feel about many things – the man on the street in the cold, for instance. I gestured from the passenger window of your smart car to the dark city street, “That man! How awful. He has to sleep out in the cold–huddled on that vent!”
“Fuck the man on the vent,” you said, and I shut up.
Well, that’s not a big thing, is it, so why do I bring it up?
It’s a small thing, but indicative of everything. When that awful bomb exploded in the Middle East someplace that I, in my ignorance, probably couldn’t find on a map, we saw the ruins on the big TV at your bed and you were dismayed only at the fact that you might lose your very good job—you worked for an oil company or something—I guess you told me—and had no other concern but for you.
I said nothing. No arguing with such a stance.
Are you still reading? I would guess you’re thinking, “Why, why am I reading this? She’s probably breaking up with me, so why not just do it? It’s typical of the shilly-shallying she’s capable of.”
And yet you haven’t put it down.
It’s come to this. Hamlet says that, “Is it come to this?” You get weary of my quoting Shakespeare, yet you like it, too and add your own phrases here and there. I like that.
I like us in bed. You like us in bed.
I like the way you look. I like the way you feel. I like the places you take me to. I am trying trying trying to really like you—the you who reveals himself every so often. Why am I hiding in the bushes? Why did I write this to you?
To look at you one more time. I love your looks. I don’t love your temper, your indifference.
You once took me aback totally and said you loved me. It seemed to be a love that annoyed you to have. Well, I think I love you, too, or so much about you.
I love your sense of humor when things are going right for you. I don’t like it when you just throw something on the floor dismissively. You’ve always been generous; you’ve never been cruel- or not physically cruel.
Indifference, as you once pointed out, too, is a kind of cruelty.
I know you are reading this. I know you will act indifferent and maybe you are. I try to be; I cannot. I am wrapped up in you and it hurts me to be so entangled. So I won’t be back.
You will tear this up, get on with your day. I won’t be staying to watch. I will already have been on my way.