K.,

i’ve been busy reading Stephen Dixon’s new novel, I., when i should be finishing Scott Spencer’s Endless Love (it’s overdue at the library).

the book’s got me thinking. about my life. about relationships. about my writing.

it’s been a few months since i’ve heard from you. i’m not sure if you even want me to write. my last letter went unanswered.

we had so little time together but all of it was good. well, when we were together, anyway. i think maybe the time we spent apart was filled with doubt about where things were going and that’s why i’m writing about things that happened in February instead of things that happened yesterday. i know that you had so much going on with your work and i was trying to figure out what i was doing, or wanted to do, with words and that these things weren’t gelling well.

what was our relationship, anyway? six dates? seven? do you know that you and i only spoke on the telephone three times. i guess it’s not that weird, considering that we both hate phones.

i’m wondering what you remember about our time together. i suppsose i’m always curious what moments linger longest in a person’s thoughts--what gestures and movements, words and phrases…

in my own head, there are lots of glimpses of you and i. they’re all sharp--crisp and lovely, like focused sunlight on bare flesh.

i remember something you said on our fourth date, when we were making love for the first time. you told me that you seemed out of place in your body. that you had put on twenty pounds in the past few years and even though it put you at your “proper” weight, it still felt strange to you. you look in the mirror and don’t see you. you wonder “what happened to the skin and bones? god, i was so thin! it was disgusting. unhealthy.” instantly, i recalled our first date.  we met at Squirley’s and sat at the table in the left corner of the front of the restaurant. i don’t recall what we had, but remember we both ate. you were drinking beer and i was drinking whiskey, Jack Daniels with a little bit of ice. we talked about music and movies, toronto and halifax, our families and friends, our past and current goals. the joel plaskett experiment was playing in the background. you said you still felt weird thinking of yourself as a lawyer. that, though you don’t “miss” being in a band or painting, you weren’t positive that your new career was you. it was still foreign, but that you were enjoying it and liked that you were making a difference.

and then you started speaking again and i snapped out of the memory and was back in bed with you. you were saying how you couldn’t wait to be comfortable in your “new” body. and i just looked at you and was astounded with your beauty. you just seemed so much a woman--the first adult i’d ever been with. not age wise, but just--you know when you’re a kid and you can’t imagine not being a kid? you can’t think of what it would be like to be grown up. that’s it. that’s what you were to me: grown up. mature in a way i thought i would never be. but it was like just being around you made me grown up too.

it seemed to overwhelm me as i tried to imagine you twenty pounds lighter. i couldn’t do it. you seemed so perfect. i remember that a line from Manhattan ran thru my head: “You’re God’s answer to Job. You would have ended all arguments between them. He would have pointed to you and said ‘I’ve done a lot of terrible things but I can also make one of these.’ And Job would have said ‘You’re right. You win.’” i’m smiling now, thinking about it.

and i remember that earlier that same night we were sitting with P--- and S----, L---- and M---. we were playing Cranium and eating tortilla chips with artichoke dip that L--- had baked. i remember having to spell Albuquerque backwards and that you had to draw a “place” that i had to guess. you put pen to paper and started to draw a squiggle. i shouted “River!” and the other two couples looked on amazed, pissed that they hadn’t even had a chance to flip the egg timer. at one point you excused yourself from the room and your four friends starting feeding me information. “did you know that chris murphy wrote both ‘deeper than beauty’ and ‘underwhelmed’ about her?"--

we lost the game but you took me home anyway. “yeah, you’re coming with me,” you said. and twenty minutes later i was hovering above you, kissing your thighs and breasts and stomach and lips… i remember how you looked so peaceful, eyes closed, legs and arms open. memories of your fragrance and taste (your breath your saliva your sweat and your come) are vivid and sweet. the noise you made (a sort of laugh mixed with “hohoh") when i bit or squeezed your left nipple; the enthusiasm in your voice when you answered my question, “do you like that?"…

i think of our second night together. our fifth date. how your bed was the most comfortable i’d ever slept in but how it tore the skin on my knees apart while we were screwing. that night was the most fantastic sex i’d had in years. it was so comfortable being with you, and inside of you. we fucked for hours though you had to work early the next morning. i told you we should stop or you’d be cursing my name in a meeting the next day. but you wouldn’t have it and we went another few rounds. you didn’t complain that i didn’t come. instead you just said “so it doesn’t...” and you thrust out your arm and opened your fist and i said “yeah, it does, it just takes me a lot longer than most” and we both laughed and you crawled back on top of me. you stayed tight against me, our chests and faces pressed together. i reached with my right hand and pinched your left breast. “hahohohah!” and we made love into the night.

i think about you a lot when i’m alone and touching myself, but i don’t really think about the things above. instead, it’s what follows them that’s in my head. we woke together and you went downstairs to bathe. i slept a little longer and woke again when you returned, naked and clean. you stood near the window and the light fought its way thru the translucent curtains. i could see snow on the ledges and rooftops outside. you’re brushing and drying your hair and i’m lying on my side, watching you do it.

i thought about crawling out from under the covers and crossing the room. i wanted to touch you with my lips and smell the warmth of traces of bath water evaporating from your thighs. i would have kissed between your legs and felt your trim blonde hair on my nose and tongue. i could have reached around and cupped your ass and pulled you tight, pressing my cheek against you, hugging your middle while you looked down at me, running the brush through your hair.

that’s it. that’s the fantasy i replay when you’re with me at night and i’m alone. is it terribly romantic or the pathetic attempt of my subconscious telling me i didn’t hold you tight enough or long enough?

you wanna know something strange? about a month ago, a friend and i we were watching a movie in the living room and something was scratching at my brain. i couldn’t figure out what was happening. i was quickly sinking into sadness and she asked what was wrong. “what’s that smell?” i asked.

“what smell?”

“it smells like...” and i leaned over and breathed in her hair. “i have to pee,” i said, and left the room. i went into the bathroom, locked the door, and sat on the toilet and started crying. she’d switched to your brand of shampoo.

on the toilet, i thought of the last time i saw you. we were on the subway. you were going to work. i was going home.  my stop was coming and i kissed you and got to my feet. i went to the door and waited for the train to pull into the station. i watched you through the gap between chrome and thick plastic. you were watching me back. i don’t know what you were thinking but i wonder now if you knew i wouldn’t see you again. me? i was thinking that i was a fool for getting up so soon. that i could have sat with you a minute or two more or lingered longer, lost in our goodbye kiss.

sitting here now i sincerely hope that you’re happy. somehow i’m thinking that you’re free of regret for what we could have had. that it doesn’t really enter your head. that your decision to put work first and not get tangled in an intense relationship was the right decision for both the short and long term. i really hope things turn out for the best. i miss you, but don’t begrudge you your choice.

maybe it’s best this way anyhow. hell, if you have as fond memories of me as i do of you, and they can linger as long as i’m sure mine will… well, then, i think we’ll have more than most couples.

however, maybe i’m just rationalizing. 

love,

d.