Sticks and Bones

The first part of a chronicle of a crush-turned-obsession. I'm sorry, Julie.


To experience this in natural reading order go to A Bright, Ironic Hell: The Straight Read .


Also, try Satellite Dance and Crystal Delusions--Parts 2 and 3, respectively--complete.

Tuesday, October 28, 2008

With a Declaration of Undying Love, No Doubt (10/28/08 Tuesday)

The letter's coming very slowly. Here's about as far as I got with the first try:


It's funny, Julie: I almost have to agree with you. I wasn't attracted to you when I followed you outside at lunch our first day at Twin Hickory. I thought you were too young! (And you call yourself old!) No, I wanted to talk about Scotland. It was the first and last time you heard me babble. But I came to know you, at work, and the more I did the more attractive you became. How much more can I know you there? How much more attractive can you be to me?

Just as I must accept your lack of reciprocation, I believe you have little choice but to accept that getting over you will take me awhile--not the least because I don't really want to. Seeing you five days out of the week doesn't help, either. My fascination with you did not end during those first ten minutes at the coffee shop; it grew. You wondered aloud what I could find fascinating about you. I wish I could have expressed it. It's difficult even now, after so much reflection upon it. You fascinate me with your mystery, the depths of your concealment, the Julie you hide and protect. At the coffee shop I'd hoped you'd lower you drawbridge. I'm sorry I tried to batter it down. I didn't mean to try to storm your fortress; I just wanted to scale the wall and look at your garden. How does the sun reach it? I wondered. Another reason giving you up will not be easy is that I'm a one-choice man. I take my time making up my mind, but when I've decided what I want I'm sure of it and am resistant to so much as consider an alternative, much less settle for it. But I could be wrong this time.


Jumbled and pathetic, barely restrained from accusation. The second attempt is, so far, more naturally restrained and rational. It very nearly has a structure. Notecard, marginal scribbles, even recorded "notes to self" litter the sofa when I'm home, and the breakroom table at lunch at work. I'm impatient to get it done (I have a dread she'll ask for the books before I can give them to her), but determined to do it right. Those are only two of the warring factions. Hinckley says he's written one of these and it wasn't till he stopped trying--around the eighth draft--that he was able to pour it out exactly how he wanted it. We were interrupted before I could ask him how the recipient responded.

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