HALLMARK FOR THE REALISTS
L is for the letters I wrote you when I was drunk and in the mood for some Nyquil and bean burritos, watching late night talk shows and wondering how celebrities maintain relationships through their sphincter-tight work schedules and the paparazzi in their toilets watching them take a morning load off. We were on a time-out but that didn’t mean we couldn’t still fuck and correspond through the buzzing screens of our modern technological advancements, and this being so, I sometimes felt the need to allow the old carpal tunnel to take a nap and exercise my writing hand in an ever-so-quickly-socially-declining snail mail note with which I would seal with a kiss-my-ass and a distant spray of perfume, hoping that you would respond in the same fashion rather than tapping out a lethargic “thanks” on your cordless, wireless, weightless cellular telephone, which I would never respond to, but rather revolt against you and send you another letter.
O is for the office in which we met, cubicles side by side, occasionally smiling inside of our headsets, drowning in the dull hums of oversized, white calculators and the chitter chatter of our coworkers, who sounded like rats, who looked like rats, who were talked about on our lunch breaks given to us far too early in the day over moth-eaten bologna sandwiches with too little mustard and coffees with too little cream. We felt naughty taking even a second over the allotted break time, and at least once a day, while we were still eating lunch at the same table, the need to use one of the stalls in the fourth floor men’s bathroom together was considerable.
V is for the first Valentines Day that would at last, pertain to you and I individually, but secretly mattered to neither of us, as we spent the day chained to our desks from nine to five, trying to smile genuinely as we punched out simultaneously, creeping into our own cars to follow the cheeses in a maze to our separate houses, I wore the pearls you bought me and touched them like they were real, and you wore a pretentious suit with pinstripes, and when you arrived at my door, the sun’s skin starting to prune, I was certainly embarrassed to be seen in your arm, but I put mine in yours with a sense of duty, throwing myself out the door, awkwardly into your car rather than my own. At dinner we tried as best we could to fill the air with noise, in a fit of politeness, trying to convince ourselves that we weren’t already like the comatose couple at the table in the corner, I had an itch on my thigh and debated on whether or not I should consider scratching it in some way, but instead excused myself to the ladies room, to powder my nose, defeated.
E is for the early morning shags at your apartment, very loudly, yet quiet enough not to wake your cockroach roommates, afterwards pretending that your mouth didn’t smell like your dog had unashamedly relieved himself on your tongue, but when you leaned in for a kiss, I dived into your neck, your unshaven hair-spears at the ready to attack me, but the offense was well worth it against the experience of unpleasant salival exchanges. Never wanting to be the first one to rise, I would wait until your ass was scratched, rising to the bathroom, shaking the dandruff off your head, and I would slip on clothes while your back was turned, despite the ridiculousness of the act, considering you had seen it all, but maybe it wasn’t my undesirables I was covering. After all, we’re over, aren’t we?
CARRIE-LYNNE DAVIS COPYRIGHT 2010
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