Note: No vivid sexual scenes will be described in this story.
Dear Elmo,
Whether you are real or not, I cannot comprehend. Every day I consider what you think about—what your opinion is of something. The lines between your being real or imaginary are nearly invisible.
I sit here on my porch (yes, I moved), writing in this journal. I have decided that since you are in my thoughts so often, I may as well try some tricks to keeping you from overwhelming them like you have. Besides, I hope that through this I will get some closure from this unseen relationship I am lost in.
Nearly four months ago I moved to an incredibly small country home. I actually live on the backside of nearly fifty acres owned by someone else. They needed to either rent or sell, acreage or this house, and they chose the latter because the former meant too much to them.
Esquivo thrives in the space offered. I still have to keep a long line on him, or put him on a chain when I leave; since he is still the run and kill chickens type. Let's just say this is not the first farm we have both lived on.
As of this moment Esquivo is sleeping under the porch pit he has created from the dirt, giving him a nice cool place as the sun rests above us in its unseen cradle in the sky.
I am writing in my journal while on my porch (as I mentioned before), and as usual, am thinking of you. There is so much I want to ask you. I wish I knew more about you, even though a part of me feels like it knows everything about you.
It is here (in this journal), that I hope to fulfill these desires of mine. I am going to write to you, even if you cannot ever reply. No different than a spouse, or friend, would to a soldier in a faraway battle.
My pen stilled over the beginning of a blank line. What should I ask first? This hesitancy seemed ludicrous since my letters were never going to be answered, but hesitant I was.
What is your favorite place to visit when too many irritations get to you? Or what place do you enjoy visiting when you want to be alone and away from everybody else?
After that I didn't let my thoughts interrupt what I wrote. I tried to keep my mind from what I asked because I didn't need a reminder that all this was for naught anyway.
By the time the sun had dipped several degrees in the sky, I had filled seven pages of my questions and replies of my own preferences. Setting my pen atop the now closed journal I reached for my water bottle to take a sip of the cool liquid.
How desperately sad this probably was. I barely shook my head in disagreement with my thought as I walked back inside the house. Esquivo was tied out so I was safe to wander inside for a while. Thankfully it was a Saturday so I had the day to myself.
My college classes had ended a month ago. I was still unemployed, even with my many internships and charity activities. Personally, I did the charity for my own pleasure, so if it wasn't considered for employment—I didn't mind. It would be like the hobby of writing stories on the side; nothing business about it. I had made an agreement with the owner to use a section eight housing waiver since money wasn't coming in. I couldn't wait until it was.
Absently I stacked the sheet music I had been writing out earlier. Another hobby I enjoyed to the fullest.
My degree was a dual one, in graphic design and paralegal studies. I took some minors in marketing too. Did I like any of them? Not at all. I did what I was 'supposed' to. My skills lie in music and writing. A career is substantially slim in such areas in these times though, which is why I did what I should and not what I wanted. I'm still unemployed though.
"Hello?!"
My mind cleared as I turned to walk back out to my porch. Before the steps to the porch stood my landlord, of sorts; he was an older farmer. His wife would occasionally visit with me for some tea, or send him out to bring me something she would make. Above all, these were probably some of the nicest people I had ever met. I wished I could return the many favors they offered me. Someday I hoped I could.
"Good day, what do you need?" I asked kindly. While saying this I glanced over the railing of the steps to see Esquivo still slumbering in the cool dirt. What a watch dog.
"Ah, I hope it isn't too much to ask..." Mr. Jameson started slowly; apparently uncomfortable about the proposition he had yet to say. "This house, would you be willing to share a floor with someone?"
"Yes. Is there not enough money coming in?" I asked wincing slightly at the possible reply.
"Oh, no. Money isn't the issue," he said reassuringly. He seemed sincere, so I relaxed a little. "No, it's one of our grandkids. They aren't getting along well with their siblings, so Marjorie and I offered to take one of them on if needed. They are all about your age, and if one of them accepts, we were wondering if you would be okay with a roommate."
