A Forgotten Delivery
Wednesday, October 27th, 2004
A Forgotten Delivery
A Dom Entry
Today is my third day at work, engaged. Mick-Mack wants to know why I'm so happy, but I refuse to tell her. Considering that I haven't even told her that I go for guys, let alone that I have a boyfriend, let alone that I've proposed to him... I think I'll keep the secret to myself for now. (And yes, for the record, I am an awful git for finding amusement in saying "no" whenever she asks if I have a girlfriend).
Anyway, she doesn't need to know. She's been perfectly fine, dancing around to my music, re-inventing the lyrics while scattering all of the mail she's supposed to be sorting, into the wrong bins. Besides, with the way she keeps giggling at my postal shorts, I know it must be love, and I would hate to break her heart.
But I've really been thinking about him all day. I want to buy him a ring. Billy. My darling Billy. He says we'll go out Friday, after I pick him up from school. Then I can buy him the most beautiful ring possible, and he said that he wouldn't mind. (Cheeky). I told him that I'd find one to match his wedding dress. Then he made a face and I kissed it.
So I've been smiling practically all day, despite the fact I'm at work, despite the fact that it's bitterly cold outside; also despite McKenzie's singing voice. I've even been singing along with her, but not overly loudly. I think that's how she knows; something isn't right with me when I'm not trying to bring down the post office with the beautiful din of The Beatles. I just can't concentrate. Because everything is right with me. And that's just so confusing, and so new, and so incredible at the same time.
It was while I was singing, re-sorting Mick-Mack's pile of mail, that I found it. A letter with our address on it; written for Billy. My handwriting. I had almost forgotten about it; it seems so long, already, since I'd written it. The letter about the ending of us. The one I wrote to tell Billy goodbye.
I sat in Marty's chair, holding the envelope and looking it over for a good ten minutes. I'm glad McKenzie didn't notice how quiet I was; I would have had a time explaining it to her.
The letter was so thick. Did I really write so many pages? I couldn't even recall all that I had said, it seemed like such a distant memory; so inconsistent with my wonderful life now, that I really had no reason to even keep it. Perhaps I should have simply thrown it out. But I know that if Billy ever heard of it; about the one letter he'd never received, he would be heart broken over missing it.
So. Should I deliver it?
It's sitting on the desk now. It should have been sorted a long time ago. Of course, not with the way things work in this post office. I'm relieved, I think. What if I had delivered it yesterday? Or the day before? Without noticing... I don't know how I couldn't have noticed, but, if it had happened... I supposed it all depends on what I've written on those many pages. I can hardly remember how devastated I was on Sunday. Who knows what I could have said? Did I end things with Billy? Would I do that? At least, given the circumstance and my feelings?
I wish I had a better memory. It's just that everything Billy has been, and done, and said in these past... three days. Only three days. All of my sadness has been wiped completely away from my mind, in so short a time.
I want to deliver the letter. If only to find out what it is I've said. I know it can't be bad; it's about Billy, about loving him, but hopelessly. It's just so out-of-place now. Billy doesn't need to hear about all of my plights and sorrows now, does he? We're so happy. What if the letter just makes him sad?
Then again... If it helps to resolve some of the guilt I know I haven't forgotten... It would be worth it, wouldn't it? I know I told Billy I was sorry about what I said during the fight. But did I ever apologise? Not just crying, wanting him back, acting dramatic and feeling self-pitying... Did I actually apologise, really, selflessly, lovingly? I remember now... I wrote this letter to say I was sorry to him. So that everything could be all right again. And it is all right; somehow everything fixed itself. Our love got back on its feet, all by itself, acting as though it hadn't ever fallen.
But I'm still sorry it had.
I'll deliver the letter then. I just won't factor in the whys and why-nots; I'll just ride to our house, walk through the door, leave it on the kitchen counter. He'll find it when we come home. And he can read it to himself. And then he can tell me what I've done, and I'll know that he still loves me. He always does. This letter will just give me one more reason to hold him, and that, I think, is something worth any amount of my own self-doubt and insecurity.
For now, I'll think about singing, about my secret and the way I'm smiling. I'll think about someone beautiful who I know is smiling too; someone who shares my same secret and always will.
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