I turned the envelope over in my hand a hundred times. Christ,
who handwrites letters anymore? I calculated the pages at about three, maybe front and back, definitely was some mass to it.
I pinched and prodded it, imagined I could feel the stroke of the pen; pictured the ballpoint that he used writing it, and saw the arc of his hand as he wrote. Knowing him, his brow deeply furrowed as he tried to write neatly.
But neat wasn’t his style. He’d certainly made a mess of us and while I’d welcome him back with open arms, I wasn’t going to accept this handwritten apology – I’d deemed it an apology – without some serious negotiations. There’d be talks and concessions, serious concessions, and maybe after some compromise, more him, less me, there would be a trial period of reconciliation.
Big words for a girl in love. I hoped I had the sense to hold true to them. This time.
And he didn’t even put a damn postage stamp on the thing. Didn’t bother with form or function or the financial plight of the post office. He simply stuck the letter in the door jamb and walked away. His part of the act completed, no ties or commitment remained. He didn’t lurked in the shadows to see if I’d toss the stupid thing in the incinerator or if I’d clutch it to my chest, and with tears streaming down my cheeks, breathe him in. He assumed I’d read it. And that was why it sat on the breakfast counter for all of five minutes. Take that! I did not need a tissue. I did not cry.
I ran my fingers over the tear-stained seam of the envelope one more time. At this rate, I’d wear through the envelope soon. Common sense said I had to open it; move on one way or the other; but still, I didn’t have the strength to slit the seam. My future was in there, for better or worse, and it was only my cowardice that kept me from finding out whether I was alone or with him.
And I so wanted to be with him. Concessions or not.
With new-found determination, I took the envelope and in one movement sliced off the side. Now came the hard part; actually looking at the contents. With more determination that I thought I possessed, I carefully, painstakingly slowly slid out the contents. I was wrong. It wasn’t three pages of apologies and promises for change. It was a boarding pass, one, to the mountains, where we’d first met. And on the page that so carefully wrapped the pass was a simple command:
Come to me.
I didn’t even pack a bag.