Story Idea: The Letter (Rough Draft)

Valentin had one hand on the handle of the mailbox on the corner Morning Dove Lane and Evening Sun Avenue, a lone blue metal box, with a domed top, a white eagle flying in from the left, a dynamic profile, fast, efficient.

Not as efficient or fast as an email. Not as fast or efficient as a text message. Not as fast or efficient as just speaking directly to his wife, in the morning, after his morning run, after a hot shower, over a hot bowl of apple cinnamon oatmeal, heated up in a microwave with a bit of milk, and flavored with pieces of fruit, raspberries, blackberries, or strawberries, whatever hadn’t spoiled in the refrigerator as a result of not being consumed quickly enough.

Valentin thought about that fruit, about how frustrating it was that no matter how quickly he tried to consume the berries, the bananas, some of it managed to go bad. The berries softened, turned dark, deflated, and then grew moldy. The bananas grew dark brown spots like skin cancer across the skin.

He pinches an envelope in his other hand, containing a letter he had written to her.

Even though they spoke to each other every day, about the news and the weather and their schedules and their health, the aches and pains they suffered, even though they conversed, they had not really said anything to each other for several years. The silence of their conversations deafened Valetin, and, he wondered if she felt the loneliness he felt during such discussions.

Maybe, he was wrong. Maybe their talks were more like a tennis match, competitors on a court, batting back and forth a subject.

“Heard this morning that eating bananas helps promote weight loss. Perhaps we should start eating bananas.” He starts off with a simple overhand serve.

“You know I am allergic to bananas but we can buy you some if you want them.” An easy ball to handle, she volleys it back over the net.

“No, I don’t want to buy food you can’t eat. We need to find something healthy for you to eat.” He stretches out his racket, barely reaching the ball, just in time to return, but in uncomfortable territory, vulnerable to the well placed return.

“I eat healthy.” But then she faults. He wins that round, if you can it winning.

He then leaves in the morning, a scratched up leather briefcase in his hand, a tiny peck, a customary practice between them, a ritual they have, a recognition between them of a peace accord reached, an understanding between them that after he leaves his job in the afternoon, he will return to her, and, she will be waiting for him.

It is an uneasy truce, which at times in the past that they failed to abide by.

And sometimes he purposefully left home after and an ugliness arose between them, a sign that the fragile… the fragile… Could you call it a relationship? The subtle coexistence of Valentin and his wife, Michelle, moving around under the same roof, but never quite colliding.

It is early morning, and there was a chill in the air held in the mist which hovered over the fields across the street, the exercise grounds for the middle school across the street. The sun pulled itself up over the horizon, spreading an orange light on everything. He shook uncontrollably.

He left early in the morning before there was a morning sun. She was unconscious when he left, deep in a dream. He had bent over her, kissed her lips, letting them linger on her lips a little longer than his post-breakfast kisses, preserving the sensation of the softness brushing against his lips, inhaling her morning breath, uniquely hers.

She stirred from her slumber. “I’m going for a morning run,” he said. The words flowed from his mouth before he had an opportunity to think about it, before he realized he wasn’t wearing his grey workout shorts or one of his exercise shirts.

She didn’t bother opening her eyes. Customary practice had lulled her into misplacing her trust, blinding her to his deception.

“Be safe,” she mumbled. He looked at her in the moonlight streaming through the window. Her white skin glowed revealing a beauty he hadn’t seen in a while, and, for a moment, he hesitated leaving. But he was determined.

…