"The light I Brought Was Gone:" A Note Never Sent

Dear XXXX,

What occurred to me, in this most useless of weekday evenings, is that as much as I'd fooled myself, it was all to the contrary. You don't love me, and you don't even want me, even when I offer myself up like extra frosting on the cake.

What am I to you? What do I seem like to you? Most men touch the beauty, and that's what makes the truly beautiful feel most beautiful of all. But your prudish respectfulness seems like a farce, now that we've seen the sheets and then the dawn, and noon, and everything in between. It's as if you're keeping me around like milk still unspoiled. Waiting for something new to come around.

In the daylight, you seem reasonably acceptable. Like a mediocre flea market bargain--$10, no $5, fine $7--but at night, you're the worst bargain of all. Night is the clearest time and I see through your disguises and ostensible routines of empathy. But this will never suffice for me, nor does it now, nor will it ever for any woman--any real woman--who crosses your path. And I assure you, they won't look twice. Because now you've been revealed, and everyone will know. When the tiger shows his stripes, there's no returning to the old life. There's no disguising what's there for everybody to see.

So know that tomorrow, I will re-read this and know I am better than you. Better than your nonchalance. Better than your calm disregard for the weight of the future, and also for those most immediate of feelings. I will always be better than you, and always knew I was--even from the very start. I'm truer than you can ever hope to be, I'm smarter than you'll ever fathom, and I have a spark of life that only sadness brings. You know nothing -- not of this, not of me. Not of empathy, but certainly of apathy.

So get ready for the dullness of small-town life. Get ready for the mundane interest of Saturday morning lawn mowing routines, get ready for the banality of casseroles and tritely cheap table wines. The light I brought was gone. You'll never find me again. When you pushed me away during a kiss, it ended there. Right there. The beautiful women of the world will not stand for being pushed away. Get ready for boredom and a life of that bad art you've perfected so delightfully. Sell it at art fairs in Amarillo, for a bargain. Hawk it at pawn shops in Del Río. I knew from the start that greatness was not coming your way.

The man who doesn't touch a woman to feel her beauty, to see those soft waves of her skin, is alarmingly and irrevocably banal.

Anna

date almost sent: 3.12.09