She’s never written a love letter. It’s not her style. But she walks into my house and hands me a folded up piece of lined notebook paper. “I figure I owe you one by now,” she says, smirking just a little, heading to the kitchen to wash her hands.
I’ve sent her dozens of love notes, tucked them into her bag, stitched them onto handkerchiefs, sent them by mail sprayed with my perfume, traced them into the snow on her windshield with my finger so she will see them in the morning. This is my love language, this is how I adore.
I unfold this tiny treasure, “10 reasons I love you” and I grin from ear to ear reading the indisputable hand-written chicken scratch facts about why she loves me so dearly. All 9 make my cheeks blush pink, I flip the page over to read the 10th; deadly in bed. I giggle, shaking my head.
I tuck it away, cover her in kisses, read it again before I fall asleep, and again in the morning. The way she writes my name makes me happy, the way she dots the letters with care. What a silly thing to love.
Sunset Ridge
2020-07-05 13:12:14 +0000 UTCEmily Stewart
2020-07-05 02:34:45 +0000 UTCEmily Stewart
2020-07-05 02:33:32 +0000 UTCDaniel Drew
2020-07-05 02:07:02 +0000 UTC