Page 53 of Returned Mail

Hope you're okay.

Love you,

—George

I press my lips together, still almost smiling. This is not what I expected. I mean, I don't know what I expected. Something devastating, maybe. Something that made me feel justified for caring. Instead, there's a dog named Sergeant Barkley stealing food in the middle of a deployment.

That's it.

Okay, that wasn’t bad. I stare at the page for a long time. Then I fold it carefully and set it on the coffee table. I should stop. I should absolutely stop.

Instead, I open the next one.

Mon,

Dust storm came through last night. Whole sky went orange. You would've hated it, which means you would've stood at the window pretending you didn't.

My chest tightens.

Wait, the window. This window? I glance toward the living room glass, where rain slides down in uneven lines.

I look back at the page.

Made me think of the apartment. The way you stand there at sunset and act like you're too busy to care.

I miss that.

I miss boring things lately. Coffee that doesn't taste like punishment. Clean sheets. Your terrible reality shows. That kitchen you made us paint twice because the first gray was “too sad.”

My eyes sting unexpectedly, but I blink it away. He knew this place. I mean, of course he did. If she lived here, I can only suppose they lived here together. But reading him mention the kitchen, the window, the details I now live inside makes the loft shift around me.

I keep reading.

I hope work is better this week. I know I wasn't great before I left. I know I was quiet. I'm trying to be better at telling you things instead of waiting until they turn into a problem.

That sounded like something you'd say.

Don't get used to it.

I exhale a laugh through my nose. But then, I feel guilty for it immediately. I shouldn't be learning how he jokes. I shouldn't be learning his rhythm.

I open another letter anyway, and another.

The rain keeps falling; my tea has gone completely cold. At some point, I forget I’m reading another person’s mail. That this is a crime, technically and well… literally.

Monica,

We had a long day. Nothing you need to worry about.

That's probably exactly the kind of thing that makes you worry.

I'm okay.

Bruised up. Tired. Annoyed that Mack keeps calling me old even though thirty-six is not old.

I pause.

He’s thirty-six years old. For some reason, knowing his age makes him sharper in my mind. Not complete. I can’t imagine a face. But it feels less imaginary.