dear sal,
i'm going to start from the very beginning.
i met you on a winter day. i remember it so well. the snow was falling lightly, and the sky was grey. it didn't stay that way for long, though.
i was taking the train to the city that day to go look at an art exhibit. i lied to my mother and told her that i was going to a friend's house, for the simple reason that i didn't want her to come with me.
i got on the train and sat down. i took out my book, opened it up, and buried myself in it. i think it was a way for me to shut out the world. but it didn't work on you.
the next thing i knew, you were running over to me and sitting down next to me.
"and then there were none by agatha christie?" you asked as i lowered the book, affronted. i was used to polite, excuse-me-can-i-have-a-moment-of-your-time manners. but you were never like that.
"yeah," i answered shyly. "this is my fifth time reading it."
"i love that book," you said. i remember it was then that i began to notice how beautiful you were. you had short blonde hair and light brown eyes, and a devilish grin that made me feel like a walking hazard just looking at it. but you made me feel oddly safe nonetheless.
"me too," you said. "it's beautiful."
like you. "it was the cornerstone of modern day mystery." i nodded, trying to un-blush my cheeks. "i love mysteries."
you grinned and took out your copy, showing it to me.
we talked for the rest of the train ride. it was the first time i could remember wanting to talk to a person rather than read a book.
when my stop came, i stood up.
"where are you going?" you asked.
"i thought i would check out the gauguin exhibit up in the city." i said.
"can i come with you?" you asked quickly. this struck me as odd.
"don't you have somewhere to be?" to this, you shook your head thouroughly.
i never knew why you were riding the train by yourself that day with no destination.
i guess i never will.
it's funny that i love mysteries so much, sal, because you're a mystery. you're one big mystery that keeps changing, and just when i think i know you, you collect more secrets. just when i think i know you, you die.
maybe that's why i loved you so much.
yours,
isa.
