Listening to: Carnaval
lisa ono
I love, love surprises. Me and the rest of the population of women. We're female like that. Occasionally though, i get a surprise that makes my toes curl, and the rest of me want to hurl.
I noticed a rather traumatised envelope on the dining room table the other day. After eyeballing it, i decide to pick it up, and give it a more thorough visual molest. Turning the envelope over to the front after staring at tattered backing, i noted the american stamps, and after a long silent moment, my name. That wasn't the most interesting bit though. The year the postal services had stamped on the letter? 1997.
I felt terrible. The letter had come, albeit a little late, but it had. And i had doubted. The letter was written in touching earnestness, asking me to do adolescentish things. Write back. Think of him. Wait for him. Did i want the pictures? Do i have a boy friend? I placed a hand on my churning tum and closed my eyes to picture the gangly writer. Earnest.
Damn. This is a bit much. And what happened to delay it's arrival so? Still. Courtesy demands a reply. Perhaps when im 32 i'll get a reply.
i miss earnestness.
