My Dear Marie,
I’m sorry this has taken so long. The very first thing I should tell you is that I’m not even sure if anything I’m about to describe to you actually happened. So much has filled my time that it’s impossible to tell any more. All I know is that you should probably leave quickly.
To begin with, my love, I’m sorry I left you so abruptly last Thursday. There were a number of uncomfortable circumstances that arose unexpectedly and I had to take decisive action. Again, I’m sorry, I hope I didn’t leave too much of a mess and I hope you can forgive me. I know you have great forgiveness in you, Marie. You’ve show it to me time and time again. What a good heart you have, my sweet. As I constantly tell you, I am a lucky man.
In order to explain fully what’s happening in my life, in our lives, allow me to start at the beginning. That first day we met, Marie, is still framed in memorial sunshine, the water dripping from your hair golden with evening light. I confess, you caught me and ensnared my eyes with pure magnetism. What if I hadn’t been at that exact spot? What if another coffee house next to another scattered beach had been my choice that evening? After all, they certainly aren’t in short supply here, as you well know. What if, darling? These questions send shivers down my spine. The thought of fate’s butterfly fluttering in a different random direction is almost too much to bear. But there I was, there you were, the stars aligned and the loud crunch we heard was that of us changing history. I’m not sure I’ll ever forget the happiness I felt just walking along that beach with you, Marie, watching and listening and smiling with youthful glee, until you left me outside your house with a head full of stars and a belly full of hope. That kind of magic is truly the root of love!
Excuse my romantic ramblings, but you now how old-fashioned I am in so many ways.
From that point, M, it was as if our relationship grew with such natural grace and motion. The late dinners, the silent communication, the bars, the film, the dances; others would kill for our level of social humour. How wonderful that we have the confidence to share our time not just with each other but also with our friends, freely displaying the amazing connection we have. I look around at the commuters, the marrieds, the young, the pensioners, and I see nothing but walls and secrets.
What was it you said, darling? Walls are for climbing and secrets are for sharing? Was that you? That sounds like something that would exist in your beautiful mind.
These people do not have what we have, Marie. They do not have our love and respect for each other. They do not date. I love that about you, Marie. I love how, in many ways, you are as old-fashioned as I am. Allowing a relationship to slowly flower ensures longevity and connection, I know, I know. It’s just that…I don’t know. I wish I could tell you everything that harbours deep in my heart, tell you everything I feel for you, but language is yet to invent the vocabulary that can convey such emotions. I try, though, Marie. I try so hard, and this message is another attempt. Please keep reading and do your best to understand. I’m sorry, I said you should leave quickly and here I am unrolling a potted history of our relationship, but that’s what you do to me. I want to be clear in that.
I sometimes stand in my apartment with the lights off, in silence, imagining you filling the void. Not just with material possessions, of course – although I have made space for your toothbrush! – but with your very character. I see you stretching in the morning, sleepy nose excitedly sniffing out the fresh coffee that I’ve already brewed for you. With my shirt resting on your shoulders, framing but not totally concealing your luminescent body, you’d float past and gently kiss my head while stealing my toast during the facade. It’s OK, I can make more. It would be worth it for the cheeky smile and delicious hip shake I’d receive as compensation. We’d talk about our dreams of the night and those for the day ahead while eating our fill, before showering together and finally emerging from our apartment in a giddy orgasmic haze.
You see, Marie? What I’m trying to say is that I’ve made room for you – in my home, in my life, in my heart. I think it’s time we moved to the next level and lived together. I know this is probably something that fills you with a certain kind of fear, but please rest assured that this wouldn’t mean the end of anything. In fact, it would be the start of a whole wonderful new chapter. You wouldn’t have to lose any of your independence or spirit, just share your whole beautiful life with me.
That sounds a bit serious, doesn’t it? Maybe I should have brought a ring with me! I should have! I should wait. I should wait. I should
At home, I look at the hook and the straps. I wish they weren’t there. I can’t even remember buying them. Actually, that’s not true, baby. I chose them specifically, right down to every small detail. But I still don’t remember buying them. What are they for? I know what they’re for. Why are they necessary? I know too well, yet buried deep inside is a miscomprehension of their intent. They are objects of restraint and persuasion, and is that not the polar opposite of love? What place has commitment where the commitment is a physical, tangible provider? Shouldn’t commitment be something that exists in the air?
I don’t know. Excuse the rhetorical questions, Marie, I’ve always thought too much. Maybe too much. I’ve put so much time into this relationship that I think it might be your turn, but you haven’t shown me yet. It’s not enough to bid me farewell every night without a single recognition of where I want us to go. How long have we been together now? Two, three months? Four? I can’t even tell, just your name fills my head with a tuning orchestra, so no space for details or dates. There comes a time when two humans in love should take the next step to solidify their involvement and become more serious. Really, I’m not saying anything you shouldn’t already feel, beautiful Marie, so I hope this makes everything as clear as possible.
The problem is, though, I am sat here writing my heart out while looking in the mirror and I’m not sure I know what’s being reflected. Sometimes I stare so hard that the features of my face flip and curve and change into someone unrecognisable. Sometimes I see love and passion, but there is more often hidden heat and dark and hook and straps. I often try to teach the mirror about love – about understanding and patience and compassion and beauty – but often the mirror will try and teach me. I guess we have different outlooks, different approaches. I’ll buy flowers (yes, those were all from me, Marie), he’ll buy secrets. I’ll follow a path, he’ll show me windows. I’ll say no, he’ll say yes. Sometimes his voice is so loud, only the orchestra of your name will drown him out.
There’s a picture of you with your mother on your dresser. Did you show that to me once? I’ve seen it. I see it. You both look so happy. Your mother is a beautiful woman, Marie, I can see where you get your looks from. I found a path, he found a path, up, up and over and open and through. Walls to climb and secrets to share. I think I got mud on your bed sheet. Sorry, Marie. Your room is nice, though, Not at all girly. I like your guitar. i played once. Maybe you could play me a song.
I’m sat here looking in a mirror, your mirror, with your laptop cradled in my lap. The mirror has a laptop cradled in his lap too. He’s staring at me. Every time I look up he’s staring at me. i don’t like him. i can’t make out what movie you’re watching downstairs. turn it up.
i think you should leave marie. talking to you like this has been nice but playing for time only lasts as long as it lasts. i would love to teach you about love but you told me once that love is not here so what can i do. i want to talk to you marie but i don’t know who’s going to stand up. he’s still there and he’s smiling.
going to send this now
i’m sat on your bed and i hope youre online and i hope youre a fast reader but he does not