I’m writing to apologize and explain—or try to explain—why 1) I didn’t come back to Ann Arbor this fall and 2) I haven’t written before.
I think that perhaps I gave you the wrong impression about me. Not the wrong impression about the way I felt about you. I loved you. I really did. I just realized, slowly and with difficulty over the quarter, that I simply couldn’t do it. I don’t even know if I can make you understand what it is I couldn’t do. I could love you (I do love you), most likely shall, as Millay says, love you always. I can write you love poems forever. But, Lizzie, oh, Lizzie, I don’t want—I can’t have—a relationship that’s so confining that I can’t breathe. I don’t want someone who’s everything to me and I don’t want to be everything to someone else, even you. I don’t want to be part of a great love story. It sort of reminds me of those lines by Auden that we read in Terrell’s class about not wanting everyone’s love but to be the only love of someone, that the person who loves you loves only you. Isn’t that how you feel? But I don’t. That’s not me. The thought of that makes me physically sick. And it was happening, Lizzie, it was. You know it was. We were just too entangled with one another. Every day, every hour, it was harder and harder to see where I ended and you began. I still feel like slitting my wrists when I even think about what was happening to us.
Will you forgive me for being unable to talk to you about how I was feeling and just leaving? Can you forgive me for being the way I am? I hope so. I hope that we run into each other somewhere someday—leaving a movie, or more likely it’ll be at a poetry reading—and smile and remember how wonderful it could be when we were together, and not think about how it ended. I hope we can someday be friends.
With all the (imperfect) love I’m capable of, Jack
After she finished writing the letter, she folded it up and put it in an envelope and addressed it to herself. For the sake of verisimilitude (verisimilitude! great word!), she supposed that she should actually put a stamp on it and drop it into a mailbox so that she’d get it in a day or two, but that seemed, even for her, a bit too much. Sealing and addressing the envelope would just have to be enough.
She walked around the apartment for a while, unpacking her book bag, getting a can of Diet Pepsi, and grabbing a handful of pretzels. She arranged her books on her desk in the order she’d need them for studying for her finals, which began on Monday and ended (for her) on Wednesday. Who makes up the finals schedule, anyway? She went into Marla’s room and felt her familiar awe at how neat Marla was. It looked as though no one had lived there for weeks or months. She walked around the apartment a few more times. She wished she had stocked up on champagne, just in case this moment—a letter from Jack—actually ever arrived. And now it had. She sat down on the couch and took a deep breath. Then she opened the envelope and started reading the letter. After encountering the first word, she got up, rummaged through her desk for a pen, which happened to be red, and sat down to finish it.
Dearest Lizzie (because you are): NO!!! YOU DON’T GET TO USE THIS WORD NEXT TO MY NAME. WHAT A LIAR YOU ARE.
I’m writing to apologize and explain—or try to explain—why 1) I didn’t come back to Ann Arbor in the fall and 2) why I didn’t write before this.
I think that perhaps I gave you the wrong impression about me. IT’S ALL TOO LATE NOW. CAN’T YOU SEE THAT? Not the wrong impression about the way I felt about you. I loved you. I really did. BULLSHIT. BULLSHIT. BULLSHIT. THEN WHY DID YOU WAIT SO LONG TO WRITE ME? WHY DIDN’T YOU CALL? HOW COULD YOU JUST LEAVE ME LIKE YOU DID??!!??? I just realized, slowly and with difficulty over the quarter, that I simply couldn’t do it. I don’t even know if I can make you understand what it is I couldn’t do. I could love you (I do love you), most likely shall, as Millay says, love you always. GOD, WHAT A BASTARD YOU ARE, JACK. I can write you love poems forever. I DON’T WANT THEM, NOT FROM YOU. But, Lizzie, oh, Lizzie, I don’t want—I can’t have—a relationship that’s so confining that I can’t breathe. I don’t want someone who’s everything to me and I don’t want to be everything to someone else, even you. I don’t want to be part of a great love story. YOU WERE NEVER EVERYTHING TO ME. NEVER NEVER NEVER. DON’T FLATTER YOURSELF, YOU ASSHOLE. It sort of reminds me of those lines by Auden that we read in Terrell’s class about not wanting everyone’s love but to be the only love of someone, that the person who loves you loves only you. Isn’t that how you feel? WHAT DO YOU CARE WHAT I FEEL? YOU KNOW, YOU’VE JUST RUINED AUDEN FOR ME FOREVER. But I don’t. That’s not me. The thought of that makes me physically sick. And it was happening, Lizzie, it was. You know it was. I DON’T KNOW THAT AT ALL. WE LOVED EACH OTHER. ISN’T THAT WHAT LOVE IS SUPPOSED TO BE? We were just too entangled with one another. Every day, every hour, it was harder and harder to see where I ended and you began. I still feel like slitting my wrists when I even think about what was happening to us. I WISH YOU HAD. I WISH YOU WERE DEAD. IT WOULD HAVE BEEN EASIER FOR ME IF YOU WERE DEAD.
Will you forgive me for being unable to talk to you about how I was feeling and just leaving? NO NO NO NO NO NO. YES, JACK, THAT’S A NO. NEVER. Can you forgive me for being the way I am? I hope so. NOT GONNA HAPPEN, DIPSHIT. I hope that we run into each other somewhere someday—leaving a movie, or more likely it’ll be at a poetry reading—and smile and remember how wonderful it could be when we were together, and not think about how it ended. AS SOMEONE FAMOUS ONCE SAID, NOT IF I SEE YOU FIRST. I hope we can someday be friends. CAN YOU REALLY THINK THAT? AIN’T EVER GOING TO HAPPEN EVER EVER EVER EVER.
With all the (imperfect) love I’m capable of, Jack I’M TOTALLY NOT INTERESTED IN YOUR (IMPERFECT) FUCKING LOVE. STICK A FORK IN ME—WE ARE DONE DONE DONE DONE DONE. AND YOUR PARENTHESES MAKE ME FEEL LIKE SLITTING MY WRISTS. HOW FUCKING PRETENTIOUS YOU ARE, JACK. AND THAT’S THE LAST WORD.
Lizzie put down the red pen and went into the kitchen. She got another can of soda. When she closed the refrigerator door she searched among the pictures, the long-outdated invitations, the cartoons and notes all stuck on with magnets, and finally found what she was looking for. She studied it for a few silent minutes, smiling as she remembered the bowling debacle, and then she picked up the phone and called George.
*?The Kicker?*