...irresolute correspondence...

To a boy,

This should really be called a correspon-dance, because as always I'm just skirting around an issue. But for the moment, you're in your silly kitchen pretending you can cook (sadly, your pretend cooking is light years ahead of even my most realistic events), and I am typing up things I really should be saying (and cursing your fucked up Quebecois keyboard), and wondering if maybe I can just let Phil Collins could say it all for me? He seems like he'd be good at that. Why are you playing Genesis tonight, I wonder. It's not the music I've grown to expect from you.

Anyways - I'm not going to bring up any of what I'm writing about to you personally - the truth never got anyone anywhere. The truth is though that you announcing you were moving back to your petite ville jarred me as completely and as thoroughly as it did when I happened to catch you on Toronto street last year, when you got here the first time. Somehow, I got used to the idea of you being here, even though it isn't your home, even though I knew you really wouldn't make it something permanent.

In the past two and a half years (has it been this long?) we have both done personality 180's. I went from precocious and worldly student-come-adult to just an insecure, scared, emotionally unhinged student. You went from comic-addicted, music-in-the-veins barhopper to Grown-up Teacher with Bills and an Ikea Floorlamp.

The popular consensus is that I don't know what I want with you - that's a fairly evident falsehood. If there was any truth to it, I wouldn't have two dried roses (one red, one white; from different stages of being or not being with you)still on my shelf. I would love to just be with you, as much as I ever did. But I would love to just be with you two and half years ago, in a small town with two coffee joint, no movie theatre, and one sole bar with what barely passed for a dance floor.

I think I can safely say this is the last night I spend in this apartment, although you're here for at least another few months. I'll put some of this together in a nowhere near as eloquent goodbye-of-sorts, and at some point I'll probably quote to you what you obnoxiously sang to me the First Night at D'Artagnan's: "Je suis juste un garcon, et la vie est un cauche-mar". It will have little to no relevence, except for nostalgia, and isn't that the point?

Love,
A little girl.