Dear Anne

Letter #2

Dear Anne,

I was surprised to find your letter in my inbox this morning. Can I imagine you waiting for mine to arrive? You must have jumped on it the moment I sent it. I was eager to hear from you but convinced myself that I would never hear from you again. I am delighted. I think I will walk on a cloud for the rest of the day.

There was mist on the Seine this morning when I set up my easel. It seemed quite surreal to begin painting in the place I dreamed about all my life. I didn't really know where to begin. I thought of painting the river—perhaps the best place to begin. I scanned the area seeking an area or a face that popped out at me. A woman sitting alone in a sidewalk café caught my eye immediately.

She sat alone beneath the red and white striped awning with a coffee and a beignet. Her body was at a slight angle with the table, and she crossed her long legs. She wore a short skirt with a long white turtleneck sweater. I could barely see the black of her skirt because it was so-so short. Her feet were clad it black boots that reached nearly to her knees. A long blonde braid draped her right shoulder. I was captivated by her apparent coolness and sophistication.

A tall muscular man approached. He wore black pants and a blue and white striped sweater. A blue kerchief tied at the side around his neck. With his black hair and fierce face, he looked forbidding. When the woman looked up at him, her eyes showed her apprehension only momentarily. Then, she smiled welcomingly. I could tell from my distance that the smile was quite insincere. He loomed above her with his fists planted on the table. I swear he looked like an ape, a brute.

I began to sketch the scene, hoping they wouldn't notice me. I didn't wish to call their attention to my attention of them. The woman stood, abandoning her breakfast, and took the brute's arm. She walked close to his side, almost against his side. I worried about her. What sort of relationship must they have? I wondered. Was he her husband? Lover? Did he treat her right? I doubted it. The scene remained indelibly on my mind. I sketched it rapidly and will complete it in my loft.

Anne, I intend to send you the completed picture. I believe you would like to have it. I would like you to have it. It is my first drawing in Paris, and, indeed, it should belong to you. I'll send it in a tube, so it won't bend in the mail. Promise to have it framed and cherish it always. I know you will.

I don't know why I know this, but I do. It's a feeling I have, Anne. It never leaves me. You are like an anchor for me. I think constantly: Anne would like this, or I can't wait to tell Anne that. You understand? Why should this happen so quickly? A month ago, I didn't know you; didn't know your name or that you even existed. Today my every thought is with you or about you. I consider myself lucky I met you.

I wonder what you think about me? Please answer with sincerity. I don't know what makes me ask this question, but I do so want an answer. I've walked this earth alone for so long. Sure I dated a few girls in high school and one for a long while during freshman year at college. I've experimented with sex, and it never seemed to work out or give me that feeling. You know the feeling of fireworks going off in the background of my mind. It was just sex, casual and unexciting. Why am I saying this to you? I should delete everything and start over but it's said and I won't erase it.

For a time, I wondered about myself. I wondered if I was meant to have a woman in my life. Maybe I wasn't right for women, so I considered maybe I was gay or not really—maybe kind of flexible in my desires. I'm saying too much. These things are in my mind and I'm just talking randomly. I feel I can talk this way with you. There is something about you that tells me you are right for me. I think...

Well, I think about you. I dream at night that you are with me in my single bed beneath the eaves. Am I right to think this, Anne? I only met you twice, yet you fill my life somehow. Oh, you are going to hate me for all this, and I will never hear from you again. I'm on pins and needles until I receive your next email.

Oh, I passed an art gallery on my way back to my pied-a-terre. When I have a few paintings, I'm going to take them there. Perhaps 8 or 12 will do, don't you think? I'd like to get a show but if I could sell a few, it would help. I'm not exactly a starving artist. I have a trust fund from my grandmother I'm living off. It gives me a little to start on if I'm careful. I couldn't draw from it until I was twenty. I'm that now which is why I decided to take a gap year.

My father is furious about it. He wants me to follow in his footsteps and become an investment banker. I can't see me in a dull office, counting numbers and playing nice-nice with clients. My mother was the artistic one—she did pottery in the shed behind our house. I get my talent from her. She died when I was ten. I missed her at first but now I barely remember her. Oh, there are some things I'll never forget like her perfume and her kiss goodnight. Do you think that's strange? Your opinion means so much to me.

Tell me more about yourself in your next email, please, Anne. I know so little about you. Tell me about your family and your studies. I know you want to become a novelist. That fascinates me.

I'm rambling and I'm boring you, I'm sure. Will I hear from you again? I wonder. My days would become blank without you.

Corey Clairmont