Here are your books. If you asked why I was returning them, I probably said something like, "I thought I'd had them long enough and thought you might like them back." The whole truth is that it allowed me to drop this on your doorstep, ring the bell and walk away.
Don't be alarmed. This is no proclamation of undying love or anything close to that--no greeting card singing "You Are My Sunshine". It's a totally self-serving letter that, as far as I can tell, serves no worthy purpose whatsoever. You don't even have to read it; I can pretend you did. I don't expect a response, though I'll ask a lot of questions. (I'll be nicer than I was at the coffee shop.) I won't challenge you or try to dissuade you from your position. If anything I'm trying to dissuade me from mine. Of course I accept how you feel about me, but disengaging myself from my attraction to you will take some doing. This was never an attraction of convenience, so it won't be conveniently put aside. The bottom line is, you still fascinate me and your beauty is no less striking than ever.
That said, I won't apologize for embarrassing you. I was only trying to strike a spark, and the fire in your cheeks proved me successful. (You can't take that from me!) Nothing I've ever said to you, though, was flattery. Every word was how I felt (even about the bin-packing). I don't mean to make you uncomfortable, but it's hard not to speak what I feel. I'd like to promise that I won't ever again blow on your embers, but what the head decrees the heart can't always abide. I'll have to stare at you now and then, too--that just goes with the territory.
Take a ride with me here in my time machine back to the coffee shop on the day of Hazel's birth. Did my proclamation really take you by surprise? When you wondered to yourself why I asked you to meet me there, what did you surmise? What were your expectations of that day? Have you since reflected? Have you, in retrospection, seen "signs" of my attraction? And all this time I thought I'd been Tom Sawyer--walking on my hands and punching the other boys--to your Becky Thatcher.
Righter? I think so. Maybe a little hopeful, a touch flattering; but I do still harbor hope, in my heart if not in my head--that can't be helped, must be left to run its course. The Wise Man is running the show. The Fool can do as the Fool does and be relegated to the comic relief.
I got a desk hour with Julie yesterday. I asked her about the new Reginald Hill she had plucked the day before. She hadn't started it because of a couple others ahead of it. I asked her about those--Margery Allingham and Jonathan Kellerman--and asked if she'd read Val McDermid. (This whole conversation was going almost exactly as I'd mapped it out in my head at lunch.) She had, and had checked out the first season of Wire in the Blood but hadn't watched it before having to return it. I had just watched it. We talked about Robson Green--we'd both loved Touching Evil. I was careful not to let the conversation wander to Cadfael; I didn't want her wondering when I'd give them back or asking how many I'd actually read (four, but if she asked, five--it sounds better). She never asked anything of me. I wonder to what degree interest in her registers with her and what, if any, meaning it has to her. I talk to her in the interest of getting to know her but, also, consequently, in piquing something likewise. I think that that's a very tall order, though. If I could peel off the veneer of selfish motive, the genuineness of my efforts might be more plain. If only my efforts were genuine.
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