Dave phoned me earlier today, said he’d bumped into you in town. He said you had your kids with you and you looked hassled. Frazzled. He said you looked happy though. Content. More beautiful than he ever recalled.
It was such a strange coincidence. You had been on my mind today. I had decided to reread Sputnik Sweetheart. I forgot that you had given it to me, you had introduce me to Murakami, until l I opened the first page. ‘I love this,’ you wrote on it. ‘I hope you love this too. Every bit as much as I love you.’ Underneath you had drawn three x’s, surrounded by little hearts in the shape of a big heart.
After Dave hung up, I opened a bottle of Jack and went rooting. It took me a while. It’s been so long. But I finally found your letters. Eighteen of them in all. Buried deep.
You loved to write letters. And they are so passionate. So loving. So kinky.
This was in the days before emails. Before texting.
Do you still write letters? Do you still remember me?
Remember that once you loved me?
Do you remember me at all?