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Eight letters between old lovers published April
9, 2001 |
| Dear John: Today is Tuesday, a day of the week, and I've gone to work, to lunch, to work, to shop, back home to eat and, now, to bed--where I don't quite drop off to sleep but, instead, write you (dear John) because you're the one who might understand I haven't gone anywhere. The high school looks like a factory. The factory looks like an art museum. The art museum has that plate glass they use in all the skyscrapers: tinted, one way. So, instead of seeing what's inside, you only get what the surface reflects. As if we were all light and play and sex, John. As if we were all skin. It makes me think I need to begin again, somewhere. Although I know that isn't right. I had this dream the other night. About CONTEMPORARY INTERIORS, the bed-and-sofa place where I work? This customer walks in and asks what we have, and, without even thinking, I drop my skirt, unbutton my blouse, take off a layer at a time until, at last, I stand there, naked. And then he says, "What else you got?" But that's a dream, not really why I'm writing. I guess I feel badly, John, about what happened between us. The fighting, and the lying to each other, and the hurt. You used to say that once two people have been lovers, they can't be friends, but … I've got a new guy--Jimmy, a sweet man--and last night, in his arms, I called your name, instead. There. That's said. What I mean is: you could be him. All these people, all this experience, and it ends up the same. A city made to make us forget. As if we were created, not equal, but identical. Interchangeable. My question to you, as an architect (Or, as an old lover. Or, as a new friend.) is what are we trying so hard to hide? I've gone from home to work to Sorry. Jimmy just rolled over. I think I'd better stop. FRANKIE
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