There was a time when he wrote her letters. God, his handwriting was terrible. But there was something endearing about a big ol’ burly doorman writing her love songs (as he liked to call them).
His love songs weren’t for her though. Not at first. He must have thought that she was fancy hot-shot in a suit with connections who would maybe make him famous for his poetry. And she played along because she loved reading them.
I’m working on a book, darling, he told her. She smiled and didn’t have the heart to tell him she that worked in a bank with no literary connections whatsoever.
His words were all about a woman, of course. and she fantasised about their love; where he grew up and where she grew up; the fields they made love in; what colour hair she had and the shape of her ribs under her translucent skin.
she didn’t notice when it was that he began writing for her. she didn’t notice how the woman in the love songs became her. she didn’t notice the new life he fabricated for her; the travels he dreamed up for her and the man he created for her. he wrote to life the places they grew up in and the fields they made love in, the colour of her hair and the shape of her ribs under her translucent skin.
you doing anything for the holidays, love? he asked as the snow began to fall, handing her the new love song he’d kept safe in his pocket all day. probably not, she smiled, just staying home.
Image: Death to the Stock Photo