It's Only Temporary

Chapter 33: The Letter (Part One)

David paused with his pen in mid-air, contemplating the stark white sheet of paper on his desk.

"Let's do this," he said to himself, squaring his shoulders decisively. Time for a love letter. 

A nice love letter.

A nice, old-fashioned love letter.

A nice, romantic, good old-fashioned-

What the hell was the matter with him? Stop stalling and just write it! He knew what he needed to say. It really wasn't very complicated. So why did his mind feel as blank right now as the piece of paper in front of him?

David squinted down in silence, forcing himself to focus. Maybe it was the paper, he thought. He'd pulled a piece of blank letter-sized paper from his printer tray, but it just looked so... business-like. Who wrote love letters on computer paper? What he really needed was a piece of fine stationery. The nice, rustly kind with monograms and little matching envelopes. Preferably scented with rosewater. Or maybe lavender potpourri.

Was that a girl thing? Did men write love letters on scented stationery? Did men write love letters, period?  He could almost hear Penny's voice inside his head, laughing back at him in reply, just as she had in his apartment the other night.

"I don't think so," she had said. "Only in romance novels."

She would laugh. That's what would happen when she read this. And not because of his choice of stationery. It didn't matter what kind of paper he used. She would read the words, and she would laugh. She'd probably laugh right in his face.

Just the thought of it made his chest tighten with anxiety.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this paralyzed over a woman. He needed to get a grip. So what if she did laugh? So what? He'd been shot down plenty of times before. Crashed and burned. Had cocktails thrown in his face. It wouldn't kill him. Might sting like hell, but it wouldn't cause his actual, physical demise. Right?

Honestly, if she laughed, it just might....

Coward.

He really was being a pussy. What did it matter if she laughed? She'd probably be off somewhere in Minnesota by the time she read it anyway. He would never even know the difference.

"Just write the damn thing," he growled under his breath. Just get it over with. Write it and be done with it.

David lowered the pen to the paper, but he lifted it again a moment later. Still blank. He hadn't even made a mark. How was he supposed to write anything with his hand shaking like this? He could just imagine what his handwriting would look like. Kind of defeated the purpose of a love letter if she couldn't even read the handwriting.

He needed to relax. Deep breaths, he commanded himself. He pulled the air into his lungs and held it for a count of ten. Then he forced the pen back to the paper and spelled out her name in slow, careful script:

Dear Penny,

There, he thought. Was that so hard? It was just a letter. He just needed to be clear. Concise. Communicate what he wanted to say. It didn't need to be a Shakespearean sonnet. It all came down to the way she felt in return. Either she felt something or she didn't. Simple as that. Chances were she didn't, and no scented stationery in the world was going to change that.

He stared down now at what he'd written so far, mouthing the words back to himself:

Dear Penny,

No. David squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. No, it was all wrong.

"Goddammit!" he swore, as he crumpled the paper into a tight ball inside his fist and chucked it into the wastebasket.