Letter 18
Thursday, November 6th
Letter 18
Delivered at 2:34 pm, Thursday, November 6th.
Dear Billy,
Exactly how sick are you, love? Do I need to come over right now with the first aid? Honey, I’m so sorry you don’t feel well. By all means, if you can’t get up the health to write, then just stay right where you are and rest. I really hope Dom is taking care of you now. You poor little thing... I have a very concerned expression on my face at this moment. Take some medicines, all right?
I’m glad to hear that Dom is doing some good over there. According to him, he “doesn’t really help much.” But, from what you say, I suppose this isn’t true at all. I’m glad you’re keeping him for now anyway, as long as he keeps working around there. I know he loves staying with you. He really does. I hope somehow he’ll be able to tell you soon. Very soon.
I hope I don’t wait until spring to reveal myself! I would be rather disappointed at my lack of courage. Though I’m also quite afraid still to come out and tell you everything. It would just be so…risky, I think. I mean, having to talk to you without being able to plan every sentence out beforehand? What kind of trouble is my mouth going to get into with you, Billy?
Aw, sweetheart, I’m glad I’m keeping you warm. Even if it is only through my letters. Your letters make me nice and toasty inside, too. That’s why I love to read them before bed. They give me a very cozy, tucked-in sort of feeling, you know?
Yes, yes, yes, someday we will be able to really keep each other warm. I don’t suppose it will be the same kind of warmth that a heater gives or a blanket makes… I think it will be a much nicer warmth than that. I don’t suppose I’ll ever get rid of it. It’ll just stay pent up inside of me forever and ever. Thank goodness.
I’ve come up with a plan, Billy. Just as I was writing this last paragraph. I think, if you are to sick to write to me, I should do you the favor of writing to you anyway, every day of this week, until I get a word of response. No hurry or anything. I’m actually looking forward to writing more than usual. And you deserve it anyway, bundled with a head-cold, you. Perhaps I’ll find something new to talk about. I could tell you a story. Or write a poem. (Though I’m not very good at either). I could try, anyway. Then you could just lie back in your pillows, with your tissues, and read all day. You’ll never have to lift a pen. I’ll write everything for you this time. Okay?
I miss you so much. Please get well soon.
Thinking of You Every Second,
MS
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