The Unswung Bat

Thursday, October 14, 2004

I tear off the stamp slowly and enjoy the taste of it. I hear it's a rice-based glue. That's just the kind of thing he'd know about, but I don't feel plagued to find it popping up in my head. Instead, the piece of knowledge satisfies me obscurely, as though I might've turned against him some thing he said.

Every letter has been more vicious than the last.

'To Dianne,' the last one read, - he'd dropped the 'Dear' two months ago - 'I won't even deal with what you said. I'm going to tell you what actually happened, and if you ignore me again it's not my fault.'

For a while I'd worried we'd reach a point where we'd just get sick of each other and drift away. When he responded to a letter of mine with a single page reading:

'Dianne: Fuck you,' with 'what the fuck do they teach you in Vermont, anyway?' tacked on as an afterthought, I knew we'd hate each other so much that we would be okay.

The perforations tickle my tongue, which I never used to notice. Now they do it more and more. One day it'll be unbearable and I'll have to spit on them or use a sponge. Fucker. I'm putting that in the next letter, maybe it'll happen to him too.

original site + text contents ©2004 twenty oh four by me called it

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