Of Kings and Aces

58| Here Comes The Sun

"You have a package from the UK, Mr. Ace," Noelle strode into my office late Thursday afternoon.

"It's about time. I've been waiting for that for weeks now." I rubbed my hands, excited to get a replacement for the ruined peacock green tie from the same British tie maker brand. It took me a few years to come to terms with it, but I finally got the nerve to email them to ask if they could still make a similar tie for me.

I had not had an attack in almost a year. The triggers were reduced, and the things that used to start an attack were back to just being regular things. The tie was a prime example. I could go on and on about my progress with my mental health, but nothing says I'm not completely healed like the still gaping hole in the thing that was still beating in my chest.

But I was functional. Spending time with my friends was not a burden anymore. Working long hours was back to being a routine necessity instead of an escape.

Not a hundred percent, but functional.

My hands trembled as I opened the box. The tie was beautifully handcrafted, just as I expected. The silk was soft and smooth as I ran it through my fingers. They had even stitched my monogram on the keeper loop, as requested. My heart raced with excitement as I put it on, sliding the delicate material around my neck.

A quiet kind of peace settled in me as I finished. It was modest and humbling. It was rejuvenating and calming. It was acceptance and contentment. I stared at myself in the mirror, smoothing the tie over my chest, a small smile playing on my lips.

Who knew that a simple tie could symbolize so much?

I cleared my desk of the package and kept the box. As I crumpled the packaging, something inside crunched. Looking inside the plastic bag, a crinkled white envelope lay.

"Wow, does this tie have insurance or something?" I chuckled and opened it.

It was a handwritten letter. My knees buckled upon seeing the monogram on the stationery. Of all the times to receive it, it had to be today when I had resolved to move on. Tears welled in my eyes even though I had read only the dedication.

I ran my fingers over the paper, admiring how clean and consistent the letters were as if they were typewritten. One look and I could tell it was written with a fountain pen – one from his collection, no doubt. The strokes were smooth and without a hint of hesitation. 

He had his emotions together. He was in full control.

Perhaps he had gotten over me as a trigger? Maybe he'd written to ask how I was? To tell me he would like to start over?

Huh, fat chance, I scoffed at the last thought.

Dearest Ace,

Let me start by telling you a curious story. Please, indulge me. An email would have been easier but writing with a pen, I found, is therapeutic for me. So, I hope you bear with me on this one. Just this once, I promise.

A few days back, I strolled into a certain luxury tie shop in central London to have one made. It has been quite some time since I have worn a proper suit and tie, and I thought it would not hurt to be a little extravagant.

I already had one in mind, so I spoke to the tailor-slash-designer about it, foregoing their propositions and suggestions like a stubborn mule with only one goal in mind. As I was describing the tie, the man had a pensive look and stopped me midway. Without another word, he turned around and left me at the counter, mouth hanging, hands mid-description.