I’ve written another bloody letter.

You won’t read it, I know you.
It will lie on your desk, unopened, for weeks, until it catches your eye as you aimlessly tidy your room.

Or maybe, in a burst of pro-activeness, you will mercilessly examine the poor piece of folded Xerox. Poor thing, even I can’t stand up to your amused gaze.

You would open the letter with clean hands and short clipped excruciatingly clean fingernails. You never did like getting your hands dirty. Lovely, warm, caring hands.
I can see you, in my minds eye, unfolding the scraps of coloured paper, reading intently, blue eyes darting like iridescent dragonflies.

Or maybe you will casually glance at the letter while taking sips of your morning coffee, leisurely taking in the world at your own pace, steam from the cup misting your glasses. The grandfather clock tick-tocking into your senses. You yawn and stretch lazily, like a beautiful cat.

No.

Its Wednesday, you will be rushing around, late as usual, a piece of toast lying limply in your mouth and your hat on backwards, extolling a rush of adrenaline, a hasty kiss goodbye… Then SLAM! The door shuts, you are gone.

You would skim the paper while reading snatches of your mail aloud on the bus.

Bank statements, bills, packages from e-bay… My letter would get mixed up or left behind in the muddle, and accidentally thrown in the trash along with the Styrofoam cup and the half-eaten McDonalds from last night; you were too tired to cook, it had been a long day.

I often wonder, what times of the day do you miss most? I miss each and every moment, even the hectic mornings. The alarm would go off and you would groan and grumble to the bathroom, wearing nothing but a pair of socks. You would be out of the shower by the time I coaxed my body out of bed. I never was a morning person. Staying curled up in your arms with a good book and an endless supply of chocolate was my version of the perfect married Sunday morning.

God strike us down, we never went to church even though it was a five minute walk away. We would lie, as sinners, naked in each others arms… So happy… I would brush your long hair out of your eyes, and hear you sleeping, and it calmed me... But I don’t suppose you go to church even now, my darling executive. Too busy, just as you were too busy to go to Cara’s birthday. She was distraught; after all, you were her favourite uncle.

I’m sorry I got so angry at you. I didn’t realise such a gentle remonstration could turn into such a major issue… And lead to our inevitable severing of bonds.
If I knew what my words would cause, I would have held my tongue.

What a man you were, back when we met. Tall dark and handsome, long blue-black hair billowing in the wind. All you needed was the white horse, my hero.
I wonder what you thought of me, back then, staring open mouthed at the gorgeous young man in the lab-coat. I was not pretty, I knew this deep down, but I didn’t care. I had reached the stage where you start thinking if a man truly loves you, he loves you for who you are.

It is a beautiful sentiment, though clichéd, and I hope somewhere it is true.

There was that gorgeous young thing, blonde she was, and a body to die for. She adored you, and made it plain what she thought of me when you asked me to that dance. “Why ask HER, for gods sake, she looks like a potato in a sack!” Nasty cutting remarks. But they were arrows, and you were my shield. No matter what anyone said, I had you. You were mine.

Sadly, no more. The papers came through, a week or so ago, all signed and sealed. I admit I cried; now there is no hope of redemption.
But I will keep writing to you. I love you and have never stopped. I never will, you are still my everything…

And I will remain yours, forever,

Kathy Scott.