Edith

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She writes letters to a much older lady!
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Edith,

You haven't had time to write back and already I am writing you a second letter. I was taught to have better manners than this and I suppose this letter is evidence of how little I learned. I am not the proper young woman I could have been.

There are things I meant to say in my first letter, but I lost my nerve. First, you must have been confused to receive such an admiring letter about a story you have not yet published. Liz, the editor of the journal, is not to blame. She does not know I wrote to you or that I'm interested in you. She and I have never spoken about you. I found out about your story the old-fashioned way. I overheard.

At dinner, Liz called your story bizarre. She was talking to Sarah, another editor and a friend of hers, who seemed to have difficulty chewing with her mouth closed. Neither of them is ever terribly polite to me, so you'll have to excuse my unfavourable observations. I was eating my asparagus quietly, smiling whenever either of them made a joke. Once a week, we have family dinner. Liz insists on calling it "family dinner," though she and I are only roommates. She always invites friends. I never do.

This night, her guest was Sarah, a thin and gawkish brunette with manners best exemplified by her eating habits. Sarah consistently ignores me at dinner, unless there is wine. When drunk, she sneaks glances my way, and tries with very little subtlety to work my homosexuality into casual conversation. She has no romantic interest in me, as far as I know. It is the unfortunate combination of a child's curiosity and a journalist's ignorance of personal boundaries.

The two of them were going back and forth about the current issue of their literary journal, laughing over unsuitable submissions. They both thought it was very funny that an eighty year old woman might write pornography. They thought it was "cute." I was fascinated by the idea of you. I hadn't read your story. I knew nothing about you. But I spent the rest of that dinner lost in my thoughts, tuning out Liz and Sarah, imagining you.

It isn't quite accurate to say that I knew nothing about you. I knew you were eighty years old, four times my age, and still interested in sex. In my mind that had implications beyond those few spare facts. Writing pornographic literature is not an appropriate pastime for an eighty year old woman. In most people's minds, even having sex is inappropriate for an eighty year old woman and so you became inappropriate in my imagination. You spoke out of turn. You shocked people to take their measure, to put them off balance, but mostly for the sheer fun of it.

Also, because nobody is languidly inappropriate, you became very vivid, very animated. You laughed too loudly, and you gestured with your whole body. I imagined that you would have short white hair, and a bright face. Your eyes would be piercing and direct. Your lips would be hard and thin, but wet.

I remember, Sarah asked me a question as they were cleaning away the dinner plates and I looked at her blankly. I hadn't been listening. Liz rolled her eyes.

"Don't you have any homework you could be doing?" she asked.

I left them alone.

For the next few days, I thought about you in every spare moment. I thought about you while sitting in the cafeteria, while standing in line to renew my health plan. I decided, in the lobby of the student union building between classes, that perhaps you were not animated. You were reserved. You chose your words carefully. Or maybe your words poured onto the page, a sex-mad stream of consciousness. Your story would tell me more. I had to read it.

When Liz went out for the evening, I let myself into her bedroom. Liz is very conscious of her personal space. She would not have been pleased to come home and find me rooting through her desk. It was a risk, yes, but I had to know more about you. I stole your story and took it back to my bed. I sat down and turned on the small desk lamp. I read your story and I decided to write you a letter. Your address was on the first page of that manuscript. I couldn't resist.

In that first letter I didn't have the courage to ask you on a date. I wrote about how much I enjoyed your story and I said nothing else. Sometimes people are moved to voice their appreciation, but I have never understood that particular impulse. I was moved to voice my fascination, yes, but in the hopes that you would meet me. That was my motivation then, and that is my motivation now. Come out to dinner with me.

I have my outfit planned already. I will wear a simple black dress, like your story's protagonist wears at first. I am twenty-one years old and I program computers. I am studying at the university here in the city. Attached you will find a photograph of me. It is not a very flattering photograph. I look drunk and slightly out of control. But I chose this picture because I have my shirt pulled up. I want you to make no mistake about this. I am asking you to dinner because I would like to sleep with you.

Yours,

Ann.

---

Edith,

I should leave you alone. I wish I could. Another week has gone by with no response. I have read your story every night. I have read your story and enjoyed it the way you must have meant for it to be enjoyed. I masturbated to your story. Is that too graphic an admission? I wish I could shock you into meeting me.

But how could I shock someone who wrote, "I live to feel her fingers move inside of me like this. The bus

makes another stop. A fat man climbs aboard, hauling himself up the stairs. I would kill him for one more moment with her fingers inside me. I don't have to. She gives me my moment for free. He lives because of her generosity. We all live because of her generosity."

I don't know what to do. I wish you would write back.

Ann.

----

Edith,

If the world were to end now, I might live forever, feeling this way.

This morning, sitting down to write to you, nothing seems quite real to me. For an hour I have been in my bed, beneath my covers, staring at the ceiling of this room, reliving last night. I remember the dress I wore, simple and black, soft against my skin. I tried to choose the perfect underwear. I did not have the courage to go without.

I was prepared for our evening date far too early and so I drank wine, sitting on the couch while Liz studied across from me in silence. When it was time, I slipped into my shoes and I was dizzy with excitement. I held tightly to the bar on the subway, repeating the restaurant's address in my head.

You were sitting calmly at the table, watching me. You were beautiful, Edith. Your dress was elegant and my first thought was frustration that my seat was so far from yours, on the other side of that table. But it afforded me a view of you, as you spoke.

You stood and offered your hand and I held it too long. I had not noticed the music that played throughout the restaurant until that moment, when your hand took mine.

Beyond that point, I don't know if I can provide an accurate accounting of my thoughts and feelings. I can certainly try. Everything about you was careful and calculated and strong. You talked so confidently. You were not the headstrong, shocking woman I had imagined before reading your story. Everyone in that restaurant was in awe of you. Your hair was white, the way I imagined. It was smart and sophisticated, like your dress. Your eyes were more blue than possible, perhaps because of the wine.

You asked me about computer programming. I stuttered.

But you smiled that confident smile again and you told me about working with the earliest computers, writing an article for the newspaper you would eventually own. When you described those machines, towering to fill whole rooms, making a noise to wake the devil, I felt like I was there with you. The idea of you in a room with that old machinery, pushing punch cards into the reader, writing notes in your notebook, it seems so perfect and right.

You told me about flying a small plane through the mountains. I sat there with nothing to say. I already knew everything I might say. I have never seen the mountains, unless you count the large rocky hill near where I grew up, or the ski slopes an hour out of town. I have never seen mountains the way you mean mountains, enormous, reaching up into the sky, peaked with snow. You paused and I might have told you that. I might have told you about how my father used to climb mountains and how every year he promised to eventually take us with him. It is a promise he still makes when the family is all together again. But I stayed quiet. I've heard my own stories before. Every new story out of your mouth was exciting and unexpected. I would have been a fool to speak.

Our skinny waiter bowed and fawned over you, as though you were someone's grandmother. He checked on us too often, asking, "Is everything alright, here? Is there anything I can do?" as though you were about to keel over. I wanted to tell him that you could snap him like a twig.

Instead, I put my hand on yours and I gave him the look, the lesbian look, the animal-crouched-over-her-family look, mixed with sex. This is mine. I will tear you apart.

He stepped back, still smiling politely.

I can tell you this, Edith. When you squeezed my hand in return, I knew I had done the right thing, writing to you. The waiter faded into the background, leaving us alone. I wanted you to tell me another story, but you watched me instead.

You asked me questions then, and I gave only short answers, certain you couldn't be interested. But you persisted. I babbled about the first girl I had ever kissed, Laura. I'm not sure that you were interested in how her room was decorated, or how strange we acted around one another after that kiss. I should have told the story better.

I wish I had asked you about your first kiss, Edith. But instead I babbled about university, about programming computers, about hiding from the lesbians at my school, because I don't like belonging to clubs.

You told me that a woman should be brave. I don't recall the context. You said, "A woman should be brave." Are you someone's grandmother? When was your first kiss? I should have told you, Edith, about the look on Laura's face after our kiss, half-shocked, but half-dreamy. I imagine I looked the same way when you kissed me last night. I died. You walked me to my cab and kissed me on the mouth, and I died.

I died and I am living forever.

Ann.

-----

Edith,

My roommate Liz told me that I hide in my room. We finished dinner and I put away my dishes. I was on my way back to my bedroom and Liz said, "It's no wonder you don't have any friends."

Her theory, bless her concerned soul, is that I am "antisocial." She had a whole list of examples prepared. I never talk at the dinner table when she has guests over. She phrased it, "When we have guests over," though the guests are never mine. I never go dancing on Friday or Saturday nights, despite having been invited on two separate occasions by Liz herself. I wondered, as she listed these proofs of my anti-social tendencies, how long she had been preparing this list. It did not have the feel of a spur-of-the-moment conversation.

I held my tongue. I wanted to tell her about you, Edith, and about how I slipped out of my room last night, long after she had gone to sleep. I walked through the dark streets, and you met me down in the subway station, wearing a long black coat that suited you well. Light fell into that coat. You looked like a revolutionary.

Would Liz have worn that same smug smile on her lips if she had seen me, hand in hand with you, slipping past the security cameras, climbing past the gates? We disappeared down the walkway along the inside of that tunnel, and Liz has never done anything of the sort. You led me down thin metal platforms. We climbed down ladders, into deeper tunnels, down where the air tasted like dirt and oil and machinery.

There were switches there, and controls. You pushed me up against a box covered with grimy buttons, and you told me, "This is where you can have me." I was overcome. Behind us, a secret door opened and on the other side was the oldest computer I have ever seen. There were flashing tubes and blinking lights. It was like an old science fiction movie. Lightning shot from one part of this old relic to another. I was amazed. Everything was suddenly so overwhelming. The machine clattered. You pressed your lips to mine. Lightning, again.

Then you took my hand in yours and led me into the hidden room. You climbed backwards onto a table and pulled your dress up, exposing your panties. I slipped my finger under the waistband. These memories excite me. I hope you will excuse me if I slip and say something untoward. I am trying my best.

What did Liz do last night? She drank wine with her editor friends. They sat around our kitchen table and laughed about students who wrote predictable plots, embarrassing love scenes. I was underground, anti-social and lit by lightning, deafened by the insane rattle and shrieking of machines that had been antiques long before I was born. Your skin was so soft. I went down on my knees in front of you, resting my hands on the table top, and I kissed the skin on your legs. You lifted your dress higher. Your coat hung down to the floor. I kissed you and your skin was so thin and folded and soft. I said that already, didn't I? Soft. Soft. Soft.

Punch cards were spilling out onto the floor of the room and a man with an old scientist's lab coat came bustling in from a secret door. His hair was wiry and frazzled. He went right to the wall of computers, where he began flicking switches. The lights went out and the room was lit only by intermittent flashes of lightning. The lights came back on and you tensed up under my touch when you saw him.

"Don't mind me," he said. "Don't mind me one bit. I have to collect these calculations. Very important. Very important." He started scooping all the punch cards into his bag. I kissed you. I trailed my tongue from your knee to cunt. I pushed my tongue into you. Punch cards kept pouring out of the computer. I imagined the machine's insides, all gears and tubes and lights flashing. Edith, it was a wonderful second date.

Love,

Ann.

----

Edith,

How can I get your attention?

I read your story. I loved it. I want to meet you, but if you are not interested, please write to say so. This is my sixth letter and at this point, any response would do. Of course, a positive response would make me happiest. Come on a date with me. I'm not crazy. I want to sit in a restaurant with you. I won't hiss or growl at the waiter. I won't expect you to lead me to any hidden underground computer rooms. I just want to meet you, to hear your voice, to get to know you.

I sound like I'm writing greeting cards.

Tonight is one of those nights where you find yourself alone in your bedroom reading pornography. To be more accurate, it is one of those nights where I find myself alone in my bedroom reading pornography. Only, instead of arousal, it has conjured up a mixture of arousal and nostalgia. That is a dangerous combination.

Tonight is one of those nights where you think about calling old lovers to see how they are. Perhaps they want to meet up, right now, for coffee. Or perhaps they'd like to watch some television. Should you call? Will they be able to hear in your voice what you really want?

Tonight was worse than that, Edith. Tonight I went one step further and actually called. I picked up the telephone and dialled. I called Fiona, at one in the morning, making every effort to sound casual, to give the impression that one o'clock phone calls were nothing out of the ordinary for me.

"Oh, hello Fiona. How have things been?"

What is the matter with me? Fiona and I were together for less than a month. We met in a record store, shared a laugh over two young men who stood at the front of the store. They were very confident in their tight pants, talking knowledgeably at one another about influential but obscure bands. Fiona wore tight pants, too, though we never once spoke knowledgeably about anything obscure or influential. We hardly spoke at all.

Even our lovemaking was quiet. She would come over and we would watch television, sitting close together on the couch. We would move, slowly, closer and closer together, until our legs touched, until her hand rested on my knee, until her head rested on my shoulder. Then her hand would begin to move, first trailing her fingers gently, then squeezing my leg. I would run my fingers through her hair, then down onto her face. We never talked about this. When we talked on the phone, she said, "Want to watch TV tonight?" or, "Want to play video games again?"

We would make innocent plans, and one thing would lead to another. But then it stopped. She came over to play video games and we did not move closer and closer together. We sat and made small talk and laughed, the same as before. I tried moving closer on my own and when I was close enough to put my hand on her knee, she stood up for a glass of water.

I should not have called her tonight.

"Are you seeing anybody these days, Fiona? Oh? A boyfriend? Ha ha, well, if you ever find yourself missing the gentle touch of a woman. Oh, you know exactly what I'm talking about. What? No. No, I was only kidding. I'm sure you're very happy together, Fiona."

I tried to think of a subtle way to mention that I still think about her. But what do you say? There is no subtle way to mention you miss the curve of someone's ass.

When I touch myself, I sometimes think about Fiona, face down, bent over the coffee table of my old apartment, a video game paused on the television, her pants around her knees to expose the smooth skin of her raised ass. That was all I could think about, while I tried to make casual conversation on the phone at one o'clock. Her ass, and the way she used to writhe and moan into the carpet.

I should not have called her.

Nobody ever wants to talk about the good times.

And if you ever write to me, Edith, will you tell me that you have a boyfriend, too? Men don't live as long as women. I feel certain I could outwait him. I want you.

I want to make you writhe and moan into the pillow with your ass up. I don't care if you collect your things afterward without saying a word. I don't care if you slam the door.

Or I could moan for you, if you prefer. I could wail. I could call you daddy, or mommy, or Santa Claus. It is too late and I have had too much to drink. I wonder if you're awake. I wonder if you have nights like this.

Ann.

-----

(the end)

----

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