Return To Sender

16/12/2024 

Miss [REDACTED]
21d [REDACTED] Rd 

[REDACTED], NSW, [REDACTED] 

 

Dear [REDACTED]

I want to apologise for the scene that I made at The Rose last Friday.  

I am writing this letter at the recommendation of Dr Celine Bertuch (my Freudian psychoanalyst).   

For the past week, I’ve had a recurring dream where I find you alone in the Quad General Lecture Theatre (K2.05). Only, when I sit beside you, the scenery changes – the wooden pews turn into the firm, purple leather seats of a V Set Intercity Train. You turn to speak, but when you do, your voice is Dr Bertuch’s (she finds this detail quite fascinating). You ask me if I miss you. The carriage smells musky and my mouth is dry and I want to tell you that I do miss you, but I can’t speak. I try to act out my response, but I’m a bad mime. My limbs move slowly, as if wading through honey.  

Regarding The Rose: I was thinking of the conversation we had – how exhausting it was. My words fell to the floor, soaked up by the sticky carpet. Your reactions: tepid; your responses: noncommittal. You are only half-listening, scanning the pub for someone more interesting to talk to. 

You had a dinner party recently (for your birthday). I wasn’t invited, which I didn’t mind at first – until I saw that you invited Helena McLaughlin. This was strange to me; I know for a fact that you hardly know her. Did you invite her to spite me? Water off of a duck’s back, I told myself. Though as I tried to get to sleep that night (breathing in for four counts, holding for seven, exhaling for eight), I found that I couldn’t. I pictured you serving your signature dish – fig and fennel spatchcock – followed by sweet, fragrant Moscato d'Asti paired with vanilla poached peaches for dessert. It was almost as though I’d been there, an invisible dinner guest. I wanted to cry.  

I stood outside your Erskineville terrace yesterday. (It is almost unrecognisable at night!) Resting my head against the thin wall, I could feel the steady thrum of a double bass. I peered in through the window and there you were – a perfect tableau vivant. Wonderfully still under the dusky light of the lamp. Curls of steam were rising up from your tea and touching your nose. You were leafing through My Brilliant Friend, the copy I’d bought you for your birthday last year. Was this a sign? Perhaps some part of you could see that I was there. You looked so peaceful.  

Back to The Rose: My words were coming out all wrong, but it didn’t matter because they never made it to your ears, and though I’ve never been one to resort to physical violence, it was the only way to reach you (you finally saw me!).  

I’m tired of being the one to see and never the one who is seen. I hope you understand.  

With love, 

Yours, 

Kindest Warm Best Regards, 

[REDACTED]

Previous
Previous

Happy Home

Next
Next

누구의 기억 (Second Exposure)