My Dear Laurens (Lams)

W. Wright

The man I am about to introduce to you is a good man. He loves his wife and has optimistic views on his life. Sufficed to say, he almost loves his life. If there was not the job he works, causing stress of a peculiar kind, he would not need to be optimistic. Although, the promotion of this idea brings to the table a question he had never asked himself before.  

Are people optimistic only because their current situation calls for the opposite mindset? Am I optimistic about each day because without refusing to look evil in the eye, I venture a simpler path? Is the path simply described as ignorance in the face of cruelty? The man chose to stop thinking. Oh, never mind. I won't find the answer I'm looking for, anyway.  

His name is William Wright. His occupation is scribe to the king. Specifically, King George the third. William found his days off became more and more on, as time passed by. Like today.  

Today, William woke up at five in the morning. He rushed through his routine, as he always does, in favor of spending the maximum amount of time possible with his wife, Yolanda. Better known as Landy. Landy with her past-dusk mane and blueberry eyes. This was the description William chose to use that morning in the palm-sized note he left her every day before he departed, even though he had just been talking with her for an hour or so.  

William needed to walk three blocks to arrive at his king's estate. Moving closer was a must when George took a liking to him. An aspect of his career he appreciated in the beginning, but not so much now.  

He skated past the stone-faced guards and the gates, the head-strong ladies in the halls, and all the way to George's bedroom doorway. Which he passed through without issue as well. He momentarily hesitated when George's slumbering face was in view. Facing the window, curtains shut, mirroring his eyelids. William arrived at the edge of the bed, sized exactly in the way many would guess (For the few, the answer is king). He placed his hands at the head of the blankets, tightened around them, then ripped them away exposing George's crunched body. 

George groaned and pulled the blankets back over him.  

"Louise," George said, bringing his tone to a condescending level. "If you don't get out of my room in the next three seconds, I'll kill you."  

William strolled over to the curtains, perfectly damaging any light before entrance, and whipped them open.  

"Your majesty, it is I, William."  

George flipped his body to rest on his back, so he could face William.  

"William, you're here!" George sat up. "Oh, good. I have been dreaming of your arrival." 

William approached the bed and sat on the edge careful to not corrupt the king's personal space.  

"I have been dreaming of my arrival, as well, your majesty, and being here does lift my spirits," William said, hoping any little white lies were undetectable to George.  

George made a tut-tutting sound.  

"Now, William. You know I do not want you calling me majesty, I want you to call me George. How many times must I order you to treat me like an equal?"  

"Apparently, one more time... George." 

George clapped his hands with a cheery expression on his face.  

"Spectacular," he said. "Before I start my day, I would like to have a simple conversation to jumpstart my energy, which, as you know, can be spotty at times. So, tell me about your life, William. How's Yolanda?" 

William cleared his throat and propped an arm on the bed to relax.  

"Yolanda is perfect as always. She continues to love me despite any of my shortcomings or interruptions of everyday life, and I am thankful she's by my side. My life, on the other hand, is good, but not as perfect as I would like it to be."