Short Story / Dear Laura
Dear Laura,
Facebook pages are miserable liars.
I remember when I first read yours. Under occupation, you had not listed yourself as a waitress, or even the unisex ‘server,’ but rather as an attendant. I thought it was a beautiful word. You told stories about children who chirped like birds and threw fountains of chocolate milk into the air, who lived only on the whipped cream and rainbow sprinkles. You described old men with the eyebrows of Andy Rooney, the mustaches of Wilford Brimley, and the shriveled black hearts of Dick Cheney pinching the soft flesh of your ass between their clubbed fingers. You whispered of ancient women with folded-paper skin and cataract-blue eyes peering at you like ghosts.
You made America and it’s inhabitants, the plain and ignorant clientèle of your restaurant, sound mysterious and magical. I assumed you were also.
Yesterday, when you got off the plane, you looked nothing like the picture you had posted. The first time I saw you was from an awkward angle, a camera looking down at your wide blue eyes and bright teeth. You looked nothing like our endless web cam conversations, either, with a clear light on one side of you and plenty of makeup and sleep. I was shocked to find, dear, that when you walked off the plane, you looked exactly like a waitress who had just endured a 23 hour flight across the world. Your eyes were purple-rimmed with the sleeplessness of roaring engines. You were jet lagged, miserable, and had terrible breath. You looked terrified, with the absolute knowledge that I was all you had in this new and terrifying world. You couldn’t see a scrap of home anywhere you turned, and you looked so despondent. I was thrilled to see you anyway.
Your words, so carefully crafted to me in your letters, failed you here. The language is the same, but you can’t quite wrap your mind around it. When you left the bar last night to smoke, and the skeezy man asked you for a root, you didn’t know what he meant. You drew your eyebrows together and tilted your head, like a confused puppy. Only when I put my hand on your shoulder, gave him an evil look, and he quieted and turned away did you realize what he had meant. He would have said horrible things to you, and gotten off on it.
I’m so sorry.
I should have let you be, I should have let you come to grips with the fact that you are halfway across the world, away from all friends and family. I should have let it stir in your mind, the fact that you moved across the globe for me, just another guy. You may well have started sobbing, or started hating me. I couldn’t bear that.
As we both came to discover, sex is far too difficult an encounter to be attempted by the desperate and confused. You were exhausted, and I remember your total lack of enthusiasm as I tried to solidify what we had become. Again, I’m sorry. I wish I could take that base attempt at connecting us back. Still, we are together, insomuch as you have nowhere else to turn.
I fell in love with who you said you were, and I cannot blame you for doing so. I did the same. I carefully calculated every word I sent you, to make you think what I wanted you to. I wanted you to think I was calm, intelligent, tolerant, not quick to jump to conclusions. I wanted to be who you needed. And, in turn, you wanted me to think you were the observant, reclusive genius, who saw magic in the world no one else could. I found no magic in the world, save for the constant and tantalizing thought of my blood on the bathroom tile. I believed you, because I needed you, or at least with who you wanted to be.
As I type this, you are in my bed, asleep, kicking and tossing in the throes of some terrifying dream. The bus to take me to work will be here momentarily, and you will wake at some point today, with me gone and this letter waiting for you. I’m sorry that everything’s mistaken. I’m sorry I’m not who you thought I was, and I’m sorry I’ve dragged you into a world where everything is strange.
Still, the face you made at the skeezy man outside of the bar was adorable. I’m lonely, and though the version of you that I love doesn’t exist, I know could love who you are. Though it went about the wrong way, I don’t want this to be a mistake. There’s breakfast I made you in the fridge, chocolate chip pancakes with whipped cream and rainbow sprinkles, like you served the children where you worked. I left you flowers in the hallway, and you know where everything is. Make yourself at home, please. I’ll be home as soon as I possibly can
Love (hopefully),
Bernard
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“I was thrilled to see you anyway” its punctual, and i had to read the twice. very influential way to write, take something that seems unlikely, and turn it around.
“and though the version of you that I love doesn’t exist” -another great line. it’s like saying i wish you were who i want you do be. Your writing style is interesting, and id like to read some of your other longer and probably deeper work.
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I think you’re writing is honest and interesting. You say a lot about your characters in a short amount of time, an that’s good.
“Your words, so carefully crafted to me in your letters, failed you here. The language is the same, but you can’t quite wrap your mind around it. ” you switch up point of view here, that should be fixed.
Both characters are realistic, and I felt that the letter as a whole could very well be real. You did a great job with this.
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