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He had suggested Tuesday night, which I found to be rather rude, that I email him whatever I wanted to say to him. I wasn’t going to do that. I wanted to actually talk with him, but barring that as it rapidly seemed to become an impossibility, a real letter seemed to be the next step.

Friday afternoon I sat down and wrote him a letter; cotton paper, brown ink applied with a dip pen, sealed with my initial in wax.

Early Friday evening, six thirty, I drove out to see him at work. I stopped and bought a single long stemmed red rose on the way. I drove through the parking lot and discovered he was not there. I drove back home defeated.

I almost tried again later that night, but the courage to do so was lacking.

Another night and day passed without seeing nor talking with him.

I found the energy to force yesterday to productive in at least one small way, with work. I couldn’t quite pull myself to do anything else. This weighs too heavily on me.

The moment came where I needed to actually leave the house, for at least cigarettes, perhaps food, and just perhaps I would try again to deliver my letter.

When I left, I did take the letter, but I left the rose in the lounge. I had second thoughts on being so blatant. Originally I wanted to walk in there, so bold, without concern for consequences.

I walked into Sheetz to purchase a pack of cigarettes, only to find the line to the register nearly stretching out the door, with some elderly woman consistently trying to take my place in the line. I reached up, touched my ears, to find I had no jewelry in those holes. I said fuck it, walked out, and drove back home.

Somehow that anger, simple hostility, gave me enough to want to try again. I grabbed the rose, lit my final clove, and drove immediately to see him. I saw his car, parked, saw him inside. He was standing there, almost as if waiting for me, although I know that not to be the case. He looked pleased to see me, but the cynic in me saw right through that as being artificial pleasantness caused by the work environment.

As I waited to actually speak with him, my legs started to give way, and I could feel my heart racing, my body trembling. I was being effected much more significantly than I expected, which only proved to me that I was right in having to at least try.

I todl him that I had something for him, reached into my inside coat pocket and pulled the letter out. I handed to him, there was a moment of silence, I guess I expected something… I said that I would talk to him later, in my mind prefacing the statement with ‘I hope I will…’ and I turned and walked out.

The little idea of an emotional shield wasn’t quite working, I felt myself holding back a burst of tears. I walked to my car, saw the rose that I still wasn’t quite sure what to do with, and decided to leave it on his car for him.

That was my attempt, however it may be seen, but I at least tried.

It’s that feeling of trying to hold back the disappointment, but knowing that will be the result ultimately.