The man stared intently into my eyes for what seemed like a strangely long period of time. When he spoke, my ears felt cloudy and unclear.
"You certainly grew up," He finally said, in a soft and deep voice like a thick blanket on a windy day. I blinked. "Look how much longer your hair got! And you lost a bit of curl."
"Ahh, but your eyes are just the same. Always that blue. Almost cyan. Like your father's," He went on, his tone becoming a little bolder. His eyes caught a little spark as he mentioned the man who had left us, my mother and my brother and me.
"Do you remember me?" He asked a little timidly, perhaps after noticing that I hadn't uttered a single word. My eyelids fell, and I shook my head. A headache like thunder crashed behind my eye sockets. I saw only black for a few seconds.
"Aubrey Dawkins. A very, very good friend of your father's." He said, clearing his throat and extending a worn hand. I offered him my limp hand, and without hesitation he shook it firmly. I immediately felt more at ease.
"Now, you should have seen this coming, what with your father's job and how much danger he was exposed to. Your mother-"
I stopped listening. What danger was my father exposed to? He was an accountant, for fuck sake. The most danger he was ever exposed to was a slip-up in calculations. What was this man saying and why was he saying it to me?
"-that little box right next to you, right, that one. Just open it. It's for you."
The box was obviously a shoebox in its former life, but was repainted with a powder blue paint. The same color as my bedroom walls. Small fuchsia roses were printed along the edges, like irregular little pinpricks of blood. I slowly popped open the magnetic cover, and inside lay one pristine white envelope, evidently kept in beautiful condition. On it, in block-lettering that could only be my father's, was my name. Luna. Just like he used to write on a little post-it that he snuck into my school lunches.
I look up, and Aubrey is already looking at me with an eager curiosity in his smile.
"I've been keeping that letter for 5 years, you better goddamn open it," He says, smiling widely.
I peel open the flap, and pull out one sheet of paper, filled with that block-lettering front and back.
I scanned the lines, hungrily juicing every phrase for a new meaning. I became entangled and lost in my father's words, and his voice was haunting my memory with every sentence.
I was exhausted by the time "Love, Dad" came around. My heart was racing, my tongue arid, and my fingers tremblingly unsteadily.
"Your father's in the CIA." Aubrey said.
