Best Let Go and Forgotten
Early September. A week to go before the kids are back in school. Supplies, wardrobes, and paperwork are complete. I tell Pete that I want to treat myself to a day trip to New York. He says fine and asks what I am going to do. "Living abstraction at the Museum of Modern Art," I tell him. He rolls his eyes, and that's that.
I have to shove a hobby down Pete's throat because his moping drains me, and he sure as shit doesn't want to hear about arranging sock drawers or comparing dish detergent. Neither do I, honestly, so I distract myself by worrying whether or not Jimmy's free that day, and that either Pete or a babysitter can meet the kids at the bus stop and watch them until I get home.
In the meantime, I've actually written Jimmy a letter a day for the past week. I didn't know that I could write so many letters, and surprised at what I wrote! I told him about my childhood friend Beth and our silly lawn acrobatics in the fried summer grass. I imagine Jimmy chuckling at our goofiness. He gets a kick out of stuff like that. I wrote about the casserole I ruined, probably on purpose, but who really bakes casseroles anymore, anyway? In a few letters, I tore old high school crushes a new asshole. There isn't anything Jimmy seems to mind reading, and the more I write to him, the more personal the letters get, not just 'Today I...' Dear Diary drivel.
The challenge to all these letters is getting them in the mail, but not from home, so I incorporate the letter drop into a new daily walk with June.
"Who's all the mail for?" she asks, as I pull open the lid of the public mailbox.
"Santa, giving him daily updates. Christmas is around the corner, you know."
"Oh, I better be good." She looks up at me with full-moon eyes. Now I better come up with a good excuse if she talks about this in front of Pete. That would be a shame, because I'm having a good time being bad. Sorry, Santa.
***
Four days before school starts. Pete asks me what I'm going to do with myself all day. I don't know, masturbate? What else can you do by yourself that's worthwhile? Seriously, I tell everyone I'll figure it out as I go along. I can't very well say I'm breezing up to Manhattan to hang out with my boyfriend, whom I contacted by phone a few days ago, and the date is on!
Dishes drop into the dishwasher, turn it on, ...hum...; the broom sweeps up the graham cracker crumbs,... swish, swish.... shush, shush....; clunk... mail drops into the mailbox.
My heart leaps, and I smile-let's go check! Ah, 'Cyclops of America' sent me a request. The address looks typewritten, but upon careful inspection, I think it's written by hand. I smile; he's very talented with a pen, and other things that start with p.e.n.... enough already! I open the blue envelope and find several sheets of paper, keys, and a book of matches from an Irish pub. Keys? A lobby door and an apartment door?
My heart beats a little harder. I look around the empty kitchen and put the keys and matchbook in my pocket. My hand in my pocket feels good, and I imagine Jimmy near me, nudging. Last night, while Pete grunted over me, I pictured Jimmy over me instead. It beat examining the cracks in the bedroom ceiling. Fuck! I wish Jim were here right now, bending me over the kitchen table. Oh well, at least the kids and Pete went out for Slurpees, so I have a little safe time to read:
Dear Starburst,
Every letter you write is like spending time next to you. I thought about our phone conversation the other day, and you hanging up on me. I guess I get lonely sometimes and I wanted to keep talking to you. I know there are plenty of people around me, but I do wish for just one person to talk to, just one person to confide in. I have a lot of changes to think about, which leads me to ask why you never ask me about what I really do. Maybe you don't buy what I told you at the hotel that night about working in public relations, although the truth isn't far from it. No need to have secrets from me, and I don't want to have any from you. yours, J.
I fold the letter and stash it in my pocketbook. Yeah, I have an idea, and that's intimate, to want to tell your married girlfriend you're an escort. Why don't I ever ask? Why don't I want to know the truth? Do I not want to own up that he 'cheats' on me? Right. Capitalize I in Ironic. I only knew him one night, yet I think about him every night. If I really want to be his friend, I should listen, and before I listen, I should figure out what the hell I'm doing-friend, fling? Best let go and forgotten? I don't know. I don't care what he does for a living. It's sort of the same as what I do. Perhaps that's our common ground.
I look at the clock. I might have enough time for an exploratory call. I peek out the living room window and dial his number.
