‘Dear Desmond’ is a letter, a composition of love, a treatise on relationships and a very small fragment of time.
I never thought I’ll miss you. After all, you weren’t the first, (don’t flatter yourself, you weren’t) and hardly the last. And it wasn’t long, was it?
Really, it wasn’t. It should feel more like another short dry spell – the magic in it gone after the first spurt. But it doesn’t. When you kissed me in those silly jumpers (I couldn’t tell you then, could I?) you started something which you didn’t finish.
Julia? She told me about you yesterday. How she’d seen you after all these years, how swanky you still are, how nice your daughter is (she’s four isn’t she?) and about an unforgettable night and some wet trousers (yes, that too. She didn’t know ‘us’ did she?) Maybe that’s what made me think about you last night. I saw your eyes and those red-striped (silly) pants in my dreams.
There isn’t anything much to say, is there? I don’t want to talk about how you left. I suppose I cried – I have this vague memory of the last time I held Martha after I burnt her together with your picture. I still hate that doll, and I should still hate you.
Wonder what it’d feel like if we were to kiss now, if you were to walk into this room, cast a shadow on these dry curtains, bend down and kiss me? What would I do, really? Would I kiss you back? The greatest kiss I’ve ever had is when a drunken Irishman pushed his lips to mine in the middle of a Sunday night brawl. I kissed him back that day, and he took me upstairs. I don’t even remember if he had genuine Irish Whiskers. Or lively blue eyes.
No, I don’t think I’ll kiss you back.
I think I’m writing this letter because I want to talk to you again… and I don’t. You see, I know you’ll come see me (poof, just like that the doorbell will ring, and you’ll be there, smiling through your dimple.) I’ll take one cold look at you and slam and swear the door in your face.
I don’t want that to happen. Because although I can never love you, I don’t hate you either. So don’t call on me. I forbid it. Ring up Julia and tell her you’ll take her to dinner.
And tell your lass that I’ll send her a gift for Christmas.
She set the letter down and leaned back, smiling into her coffee.
And poof, just like that, the doorbell rang.
This is inspired by this.