A Conversation...

…written on slips of notebook paper at or around three inches in length and two inches in width. She slides one underneath my office door ten minutes before noon.

“Where do we go from here?”

I open it up, read it, and respond in kind. The only writing utensil that I have left is a red pen, which makes the letters themselves feel lonley and desperate, not quite fitting in with the paper beneath them.

“Forward.”
“Along the same lines?”
“No.”
“Like nothing happened?”
“I said ‘No’.”
“I can’t pretend like nothing’s happened.”
“Neither can I.”
“So what do we do?”
“I don’t know.”

The notes stop for a moment. I am kneeling in front of the office door with five pieces of conversation balled up at my knees.

It continues.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” it says.
“I’m not really hungry.”
“Neither am I, but you have to eat.”
“Do I?”
“You can’t just smoke and drink.”
“Sure I can.”
“And how long will you survive like that?”
“Long enough. Too long, really.”

Another long pause in correspondence. Nine slips of paper at my knees.

“Richard, I need you to TALK to me.”
“We are talking.”
“No, we’re not. I need you to TALK to me.
“I can’t.”
“How long?”
“?”
“How long?”
“?”

Thirteen slips of paper, and after a short while number fourteen slides up next to my right knee.

“All we had before was each other.”
“So?”
“It’s all we have now. I’m still here, Richard. I need you now more than ever.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Stop apologizing.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Richard. This is killing me.”
“Me too.”

And with that last note, note number thirty-four, she begins kicking and punching at the door during an anguishing outburst of frustrated tears and emotion. I want desperately to consul her, to wrap my arms around her body and squeeze until the strength drains out of us both.

But I can’t. Not right now. For some reason, deep within myself, I just can’t seem to get up off of my knees and open the office door.