Play Nice

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Thanks,
Patricia

Briefly

[This is where the summary would go if I'd bothered to write one.]

« Week 18Untitled »
Hello dearest

She began the letter as she always did, Hello dearest, and then stopped.

The pen was running out of ink. She couldn’t continue like that. She pushed the paper away from her body and looked around her cluttered desk. The cup in which she kept her pens and pencils was empty of pens. She could write in purple marker perhaps? No. That wouldn’t do. The lettering would be too big and she’d feel as if she were writing a ransom note. Did kidnappers use purple ink she wondered? Probably not. Who would take such a note seriously? The person receiving the note would scoff and believe it to be some joke, unless the note was accompanied by a bloody finger or ear. A bloody anything had the power to make even the silliest of inks seem very serious.

She idly pushed some papers around, thinking that a pen might be found under all the unpaid bills and discarded store flyers. Oh, look, she thought. Fifteen percent off of garden supplies. That seemed like a good deal. After the sale the spiffy looking hoe would only cost about $4. Maybe she should take a trip down to the store and buy a few things. But she didn’t have a garden, or even space to begin a garden. She lived on the 8th floor of a 22 floor high rise. Hmm. I’m not planning on buying a house for a few years. Maybe I’d better not. I don’t have much room as it is, she sighed.

Wearily she rose from the chair. With her hands on her hips and her head tilted to the left, she critically looked about the room. Newspapers were everywhere, there were more books in this apartment than two libraries put together. Of this she was convinced. She hadn’t dusted since last April. Maybe longer than that. She doubted opening up all the windows on really windy days could really count as dusting, though the newspapers flying about certainly cleaned some spots up.

Aha! she said, as she spied a pen underneath the coffee table. After she’d retrieved it, she once again sat at the desk and pulled the stationery towards her. She crumpled the used sheet of paper and, with a distracted air, placed it not in the empty trash bin at her feet, but instead in the open drawer on the right hand side.

She chewed on the tip of the pen for a second or two then slowly lowered it onto the paper. The beginnings of an H were starting to form when she decided that this stationary simply wouldn’t do.

Sunflowers and birds just weren’t the thing for today’s letter. She needed something a little more somber. Now, where had she put her letter box? The last time she’d had it she’d been writing a quick note to her bank manager. Why she was expected to balance her checkbook was beyond her. What good was the bank for then, if not to keep track of her money correctly? That was their job after all. Otherwise she might as well just do what her great-grandmother used to do, and stash her money in her mattress. Her note had explained all of this to him. He apparently had a different opinion judging from the stern letter he’d sent her via yesterday’s post. Which reminded her, when did he want to meet with her?

She shuffled some papers about until she found the letter from the bank. Next Wednesday at 3pm. Why so late she wondered? 3pm was a horrible time to do business. People were itching to go home and hardly had a coherent thought. No wonder those bank people can’t keep my money matters straight, she huffed. I’ll have to call him in the morning and reschedule for a decent hour. It was a pity that banks didn’t open until 9am. Such a waste of good mornings. She, herself, liked getting as much done before 10 am as possible. That left the rest of the day to think.

She rummaged through all of the desk’s drawers until she came across the stationery box in the bottom-most drawer. She opened up the box and leafed through the different colored paper. She would definitely need full sheets, she thought. There was so much to say. Gray? No, that was much too somber. Cream is best. She pulled out a sheaf of the cream colored paper and put the box back in the drawer.

Okay, she said as she tapped the paper on the desk. She cleared her throat, picked up the pen and, with a poised hand, considered what she should say.

Hello dearest, she began again. And stopped.

No, no. That was wrong. One didn’t begin a breakup letter with Hello dearest.

She sighed.

She lined the paper along the edge of the desk, placed the pen neatly on top of the pile of paper and pushed away from the desk.

She needed to clean this room before she’d be able to have a decent thought in her head. Yes, that’s what I need to do, she thought. Once that’s done I’ll start this up again.

Published 06/08/03 in Writing • | Views: 1659 times | Print

3 Comments & Trackbacks



Its like walking around in someone’s head while she goes everywhere but where she’s really got to go.  Comes together great.  Another awesome job.

Posted by dan  on  06/09  at  12:58 PM

that is going to be one hard letter to write

Posted by Bobby  on  06/09  at  01:11 PM

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