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by Cooper Thomson
I walk listlessly up the staircase inside my apartment building, trying to quell the butterflies that have now taken up residence in my belly and are wreaking utter havoc to my well-being at this most delicate hour. This particular bunch, however, are a tenacious and difficult breed to suppress. They are not of the kind that flutter ever gently in the warmth of a newly love-struck midriff. No, these ones don't tickle the senses like the breath of a drowsy kitten on your palm. These ones don't fill your anxious mind with wonder and anticipation. No, these particular little buggers could only be the spawn of an unexpected letter from an x-girlfriend who one year ago left you and moved to Greece without saying a word - not even a good-bye. Fuck, I just want to be in bed.
After what feels like a good forty-five minutes, I finally reach the door to my humble two-bedroom place and slip the key into its hole. Thank God I only live on the second floor, and thank god I only have one key on my key-chain. I drop the other letters onto the coffee table and take the letter into my room along with my sorely fatigued body. I peel off my jeans and T-shirt and have that thought that only enters one's mind at such a dismal moment of the starkly early morning: Jogging pants are a good idea. I put on my only pair (safely hidden for just such emergencies) and feel grateful that my right knee isn't bleeding from the fall, just bruised. I walk back to the living room with letter in hand while pulling a thin and wonderfully worn Spider-man T-shirt over my head. I fall into the large corduroy chair my roommate recently brought home so triumphantly from a thrift shop - or as I'll describe it to my mother, an antique store. I tear open the letter as the butterflies reach the fervent climax of their performance. I read:
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Dear Sam,
My grandmother has died. A service is being held on the 23rd
of February, at the Houseman funeral home. I'm sure the address
will be in the phone book. My grandfather thought you should
know. He told me she liked you very much, which I knew. You are
welcome to come. I will be coming in for it.
Gwen
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I look at each of the four corners of the paper for any sign of further writing, but there's nothing. I glance at my watch and realize it's the 21st today. I'll see her in less than two days. For the next hour I just stare at the letter, sometimes reading it over, sometimes just looking at her handwriting. I'm exhausted but can't sleep. The birds are chirping outside the balcony window. Shit.
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