There is a letter from Viola in the mailbox this morning, amongst the junk and the bills. It is too cold outside to read it at the top of the driveway, so I wait until I am settled in near the pellet stove.
Dear Sebastian,
I picked up Boone and the bunch at the airport, and did you break them? They won’t stop talking about ice and snow and temperatures low enough to shatter teeth and bone. What arctic hell are you living in? Don’t answer, it’s rhetorical.
I am including a few poems for you in the bottom of this envelope. They are very small, and written on slips of paper the size of fortune cookie fortunes. They are not meant to be thrown out on accident, only on purpose. Distribute or discard as you see fit.
I am also including some photos of my hands, which I know are an odd thing to include, but I have started to enjoy the look of them now that they are beginning to age. The textures are becoming more noticeable, the little scars more clear. I had no hand vanity when I was younger, but now that time is sliding on, I find that it’s these little bits of me of which I am growing fond. I will age into being a weird spinster, no doubt, with fifteen cats and boxes of unpublished poems. I am not opposed to this idea.
Since you and Hunter have gone, I have discovered a new bakery not far from here, and I have become addicted to their chocolate mousse cake. It is rich and luscious and delicate. I would sell my soul for their recipe. Your soul too, for that matter. I’d sell Rivi’s, but I’m pretty sure by now that she’s sold and double-sold it, pawned it, stolen it back, and it’s tattered and worn down to a nub. Poor little soul.
I have heard about the plan for everyone’s relocation to the other coast, and by now you’re aware of it as well. What is up with all of you people? Why are you all abandoning me? Yes, the west coast is on fire most of the time. Yes, the rental prices are insane and inhumane. Yes, San Francisco has turned from being a lovely, arty, cultural mecca into a dystopian tech bro nightmare world…
… oh. Right. That’s why you’re all relocating.
Save me a room, I guess. Might be inevitable.
So. The thing I mentioned to you the other day on the phone. The thing I didn’t give you any details about, because I didn’t want to jinx it.
I met a girl, Sebastian.
Yes, yes, I know. I gave up on dating. It’s that spinster thing I was just talking about. Only…
… it’s just that…
… things happen…
And no, I’m not giving you any details yet. It’s too soon for details.
Except her name is Iris.
And she reads poetry.
And she smells like cinnamon.
Good night, Sebastian.
Write soon.
Love, Viola