Page 24 of After His Eulogy
“Yes.”
“And you tore it up.”
“Yes.”
“Reed.”
“Griffin.”
“Why are you telling me this now and not on the sidewalk. Not in this apartment three weeks ago. Why now.”
I look at him.
He does not say anything.
“I tore up two letters and a postcard, Griffin. In two years. Not sending them was what I had to give you. Every day for two years I didn’t send you something. Griffin. The not-sending was me choosing you. I left and I kept choosing you. I chose you when I crossed out the letter at three in the morning. I chose you when I put the postcard in my pocket. I chose you every day I did not call. The leaving was not the end of choosing you. Leaving was choosing him. I’ve been choosing you the entire time. Or trying to. Or — yeah. Choosing you. I did not know how to tell you that. I do not know how to tell you that now. I am telling you anyway because you asked.”
He is very quiet.
“I should have told you three weeks ago,” I say. “I am sorry I didn’t.”
He sits in the chair. He does not move. The light from the desk lamp is on the side of his face. The thumbprint on the half-glass of water is still on the half-glass of water. “Reed.”
“Yeah.”
“The postcard.”
“Yes.”
“You stood in front of the slot.”
“Yes.”
“For how long.”
“I don’t know. Long enough that the woman started looking.”
“Did you…“
“What.”
“Did you almost. Did you almost let it go.”
I look at him.
“Yes,” I say. “Three times. I’d lift the postcard to the slot and stop. Lower it. Do it again. The third time I put it in my pocket and walked out because I knew if I lifted it a fourth my hand was going to do it without me.”
He puts his hand over his face.
He puts his hand over his face and doesn’t move it for a long time. I don’t move either. I’ve given him the thing and he is sitting with it. After a while he takes his hand away. His face is wet. Not crying. Wet. He has not been making a sound. The tears have just been doing what they were going to do.
“Okay,” he says.
I don’t answer. I wait.
“I need you to leave.”
“Okay.”
