The second-to-last time I saw you, you called me "Judith" and sexually assaulted me in my own bed. But don't worry; I never told anyone. I know how much you wanted my friends to like you.
This letter concerns yesterday. I crashed my bicycle on my way home thinking about how I'd just seen you. As I achingly stood, the rain washing-the-mud-stinging-the scrapes-through-the-holes-I'd-just-ripped-in-my-skinny-jeans, I still thought about it. The population of Boulder, Co. is 102,800. I suppose something like this should have been among my expectations when I chose to move here, knowing you made the same decision a whole year and a half ago.
You even look like dirty laundry. I think up until yesterday I thought you were dead. But, no, there you were. In one of my comfortable little places. One of the places I go late in the afternoon, this one a bake shop. I tried not to hurry. I paid for my some-stupid-thing and shoved the change in my pocket. I think it was a cherry turnover, but it got crushed in my backpack anyway.
Before you left our city of origin, you called me a whore and said you wanted nothing more to do with me. So I want to ask. Was this accidental, or will I be seeing a lot of you?
If you want, we can feel the tiniest moment of utter panic and pretend not to recognize each other again. That way, none of this makes any difference. I'm not even going to look up your address and mail this letter, if it makes you feel better.
J.
-C
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