Is it too much to ask that new catastrophes hold off, or at least form a line until other catastrophes have been addressed? Everything is terribly worse than when I last wrote. I dialed Trace’s phone number only to have her answering machine recite instructions to leave a short (emphasis short) message, to which I followed the beep with a long, at least three minute message wherein I recounted literally every thought I had in my head about having met her, including down to how much I loved the color of her barrette.
It’s no surprise she has yet to return my call.
I’ve been in a funk for three days about my ridiculous behavior.
I checked in with Mrs. Purifoy this morning. We sat in an amicable silence sipping at our hot, sweet coffee until Red plowed in with a fist full of bills he was fretting over yelling something about how an old lady shouldn’t have so many subscriptions to magazines, especially an old lady with glaucoma. I excused myself and went out to the sunroom, which smelled hot and dead and full of last year’s rotten plants. After taking clippings from the devil’s ivy in the living room to refresh the old pots, I sat down in a heap in an arm chair with the sun on my face, trying not to think about Trace, listening to Red upstairs go on and on about a dollar here, a dollar there, and soon enough, she’d be in the poor house.
I walked home in a daze fighting back the knot in my throat like a crazy teenager suddenly in love or lust, totally forsaking everything else, all of my integrity shot. At least in my head it was all shot to shit. All I could think about is her writhing about underneath me.
Some kind of confessional these letters are and thank God you are all dead and I do not send these words out to anyone but me.
The dog met me at the door, jumping up to lick my face, knocking over the keys in the bowl, forcing me down to the level of the red blinking message light on the phone.
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