You think your life is fucked up? Try living a piece of mine.

The Hand-Written Letter

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This Man was in the kitchen, washing dishes, when I saw him drive up.
I thought he'd left for his trip to Texas already. But here he was. I had no idea what I was going to say, but it didn't matter because by the time I realized that John was coming to the door, just like that, he was heading back to his car.
Then he was gone.
On the porch was a letter with my name on it.
It was over. Actually it was over on Saturday evening, but I'd been struggling with whether or not I could forgive and thereby truly forget and continue the way he and I were going or was it best that we stop and go our separate ways.
I stood and read the letter, then re-read the letter then finally just folded and put it back in its envelope and went back to what I was doing. Should I call him and let him know that I'd gotten the letter or should I just leave it alone? At first, This Man thought about calling John, but finally I decided to just leave it alone. It was over--I was fine and he was fine.
And that's all there was to it. Period. End of discussion.


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