Big Dump

The idea of a letter struck me sometime close to midnight and I began with a wild abandon, pouring my thoughts awkwardly onto paper with inaccurate epithets and clumsy descriptions. It was concise, in a way solicitor’s letters usually are, and I thought, quite humorously, about substituting my mental label of “love letter” with a “legal notice” and leaving it at that. I solemnly declared that my notice did not require a response; I quoted from my journal and gave a full citation. I had great fun imagining Jonny’s humorless response to my scribal antics; laughing to myself I turned purposelessly to look out the darkened window and realized with a start that I was quite alone.

It was clear now that the letter had to be edited. With unnoticed sweat cooling off my forehead I stared at the four neat paragraphs on a page; it was quieter now, the hours ticking off into the morning. The unmade bed beckoned me and for a second I thought of the delightful feeling of pushing my face into the pillow with the thought of him; sliding softly into a swift current of musings, tracing leisurely along the familiar routes of imaginings. I did just that; and with my eyes closed and my mouth open with a breathy sigh, I quoted a few lines from my letter into the gentle darkness around me.

The spell must have worked, for I remained in the state of half-wakefulness for the whole night. My thoughts turned into dreams and dreams into thoughts, and I conversed with Jonny while turning over in my bed in a search of a more comfortable spot. I sweated, too, and smiled at the sound of rare cars sloshing rainwater on the street; mostly, I smiled at Jonny, who was rather quiet.

“Jonny,” I breathed at him, while he sat on my rather shabby sofa, his hands on his knees and his jaw set. His hair was bathed in the cold light that came from the window; I trembled with delight, looking up at him from my place on the floor. I loved him then, distant and mute as he was, and I thought – perhaps when he answers my letter, this Jonny of mine will speak. For now I was afraid to touch him, for in my writing I promised not to allow myself any liberties. And yet, as the night held its last breath before giving in to the soft light of the morning, I pressed my lips against his clothed knee in silent admiration. 

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Well, I had to post something for the (almost) four-year anniversary (-: