I cram bits of the loneliness in letters—I address them to you,
stamp them, get dressed in a nice outfit, and make it an event.
I walk to the café first, plunge a croissant and coffee into the
hunger and nerves. I settle in for a bit, people-watch; whose
eyes would capture your attention? What would you think of
the old couple stumbling with their phone to pull up a photo
of their grandson to spring onto the unsuspecting waitress who
will revel in their happiness, unaware at home, she’ll come home
to a note, ‘I can’t do this anymore’ and her partner’s belongings
are all gone. What would you make of the boy ecstatic that he
spotted a shrike to an indifferent father, counting down the
seconds till the boy’s mother picks him up again, absolving him
of the weekly responsibility of fatherhood? I wonder if these
banalities would stir anything in you—I think the reason why
I mention any of this is to see how you react, reverse-engineer
the lens in which you see life in all of its entirety. I gather my
things quietly and walk to the post-office, ruminating if the
distance between us wasn’t something tangible, would we have
found each other? How many lifetimes do you think it would
take before I’m cocooned in your arms, and wake to steady soft
sounds of your breathing, and not the heat of the morning sun?
The mail-clerk eyebrows wrinkle, ‘did you mean to address these
letters to the same house as yours’. I sheepishly nod—
I always thought your home was me.
