Dear Bowie,
I hope you get the reference to your current situation. Though I barely know you, I hope you aren't a Léon or a Rodolphe. We can't help who we fall for, but we have some choice in how to (or whether to) pursue it. If she is meant for you, she'll come to you eventually. Don't turn her into an Emma- we both know how that goes in the end. For now, let her get to know you as a friend. After all, that's how the best romances blossom (so I am told). Learn the small things about her. Does she like coffee or tea? What's her favorite color? What makes her smile?
To be frank, I may not be the best to give advice. I happen to be quite lonely romantically and with few prospects. Then again, that hasn't been my focus for a long time. There are other things in life that need to be addressed before one can truly think about what might make them happy. Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs, in a way.
Right now, I'm frustrated. I've finally called a truce with the person in my life who brings out the absolute worst in me. I become abrasive, and I'm not proud of how I act around him. I feel like you might be the only one to truly (but slowly) bring out the parts of me that I actually like. The parts of me I can't show the world, let alone him. So, thank you. I hope you know you are appreciated.
With that in mind, I want to know more about you. Not your identity, but who you are. Where you came from. More than just the basics.
I want you to tell me a story.
Nothing fancy, merely a memory. If it helps, I'll begin.
When I was eight, I stopped by Taylor's shop to grab some groceries for my mom. I knew she hadn't given me enough to get anything for myself, but I saw some seed packets in one of the lesser populated aisles. Now, it's important to me that you understand that I have been the epitome of someone who never toes the line my whole life. However, at that moment I decided to be entirely selfish. I took a few packs and shoved them into my pockets.
It was thrilling.
I'm not a kleptomaniac, but every year on that day I steal a few packs of seeds. I've kept a garden in my friend's backyard for years now, and it's grown (no pun intended) significantly. The seeds I stole that first day were daffodils and poppies. Unfortunately, the poppies were perennials, but the next year during spring I saw green breaking through the soil once again. Within a few weeks, they had bloomed into beautiful yellow flowers. I keep a scrapbook every year where I press one flower from each plant I grow. So far, I have over one hundred flowers in my book. And every spring, I plant more. I try to only steal annuals now to make sure they come back the next year, but Taylor's only caught me a few times.
Daffodils are my favorite. No matter the snow or the cold, they came back the next year. They were consistent. And I love them for it.
So, Bowie, tell me a story. Place your next letter in a book that reminds you of mine.
Yours,
Rhiannon
YOU ARE READING
the town and the city (j. mariano)
Romancejack kerouac probably never intended for his works to become a source of communication, but who cares? (OR in which mandy forester and jess mariano fall in love through the pages of a book)
