(Love) Letters

By Abby Melick

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The man writes her a love letter.

The man (married) writes her (his coworker) a love letter.

The man (who is married and has been for eight years) writes her (his best friend at work, the one who kept him sane during the merger last fall) a love letter (slipped into her company mailbox during work hours).

The man (married) asks her in the love letter if there’s any chance her feelings for him are as strong as his feelings for her. The man writes that he has been trying to ignore these feelings, but the fact is that she understands him better than anyone (she asks him the right questions, she listens with eye contact, she keeps certain thoughts to herself, she touched his arm one time and asked after his workout routine, and once, over happy hour drinks, she confessed she wasn’t sure her then-boyfriend was the one) and he’s convinced she might be his soul mate.

The man (married) asks her to meet him in the park.

She goes to the park (because she doesn’t know how to say no, because she grew up in a household where saying no was considered rude, because she was a young girl in the 1990s, when saying no meant you were a bitch or a tease or a lesbian). The man tells her he is in love with her (that he can’t stop thinking about fucking her) and that he needs to be with her.

Taken aback, she tries to let the man down gently (isn’t there the tiny issue of your marital status?). The man (married) says he understands (he misunderstands, thinking she’s left the door slightly ajar (the door is slightly ajar)).

Months go by. When she runs into him in the kitchenette, she asks if he wants more coffee before measuring out the grounds. He thanks her, he smiles. She feels relief that maybe they can move on.

The man (still married) leaves a second letter in her mailbox. The letter is heavy with feelings and new promises (he’ll leave his wife for her, seriously, he will, he’ll do anything for her, if only she gives him a sign, some kind of sign, she doesn’t even have to say anything, just a sign that she could someday come to love him, too). Another walk in the park is requested. She goes (…because how could she not).

On their same bench, she tells him he can’t ask this of her (she’s thrilled that he’s asked this of her), that the man needs to make choices about his marriage on his own (she can’t bring herself to dismiss him entirely, or go to HR, because the attention she received in her childhood was uneven, and contingent on accomplishment, and her self-esteem is such that she can’t fathom herself as a love object (lust object)), and she’s now morbidly curious to see how deep his river runs, (which she knows, deep down, is not an entirely innocent spelunk)).

The man (married, unhappily) says that makes sense (he doesn’t think it makes sense). He says sorry (he’s not), he’s going through something (he needs a good fuck). He hasn’t been himself (he hasn’t had a good fuck). And that he admires her, even more than before, actually, for how she’s handling his dogged pursuit (her refusal makes her more of a prize to be won). He hangs his head and a tear falls between his legs on the bench. She says she wishes she could help him through this (she’s delighted that he’s crying over her), but she can’t (she won’t). They hug. She goes.

Months pass. When they both end up in the kitchenette, she asks if he’d like her to measure the grounds with him in mind. He turns away without answering.

She watches the man go thin. His under-eyes purple. She hears through a colleague that he’s separated from his wife and is crashing on a friend’s couch. She feels terrible (she’s incapable of living with the idea that someone’s pain might be (even partially) her fault).

One night, unable to sleep (in need of a good fuck), she writes a letter of her own. She leaves it in his (company) mailbox the following Monday, telling him she’s sorry for what he’s going through (she misses his attention), and is there anything she can do to make this painful time easier for him (get his attention back).

The man, letter in hand, walks up to her in the kitchenette with the letter while she’s measuring the coffee grounds and asks if she’d like to grab a drink sometime, or maybe go for a walk in the park?

She agrees to a date (because they’re both single now, and what if he really is the one?). She lets the man (separated) kiss her on their park bench, both their mouths slack with wine (because it seems like the kind of thing one should do for a man who’s left his wife for (the idea of) you).

But their tongues touch and she feels nothing (less than nothing, more like she’s standing over a void, the black hole willing her to slip). She knows then, with a clarity that cuts through the surprise (flattery) of a love letter in an office mailbox. She knows she doesn’t want to keep kissing the man (who is not her soul mate after all, but a guy who was more than willing to cheat on his wife). As kindly as she can, she tells him this isn’t what she wants (it isn’t what she wants). She wishes him all the luck in the world (and means it).

The man (almost divorced (just waiting on the paperwork (never actually filed (he loved his wife, really, he did)))) calls her (his limerenced-into-oblivion coworker) a teasing bitch (…) (because she won’t fuck him (and never will (because the love object may only maintain her power in the negative space of the subject’s deprivation))).