onto the anger from the earlier interaction with the women, he pulls harder than necessary. The contents on the desk begin to spill, sliding forward in a slow decent, as if in a strange dare. Time is frozen, a standoff, as he stares the stacks down, teetering. In the back of his mind, he imagines they shout, “I accept!” and that’s when it happens. Once they fall, they don’t stop. A waterfall of paper. A cascade. They practically fly, carried by an invisible force. “Errrg!” slips from his lips as he tries to fix the situation, but things go awry, and it’s a paper avalanche. Looking at the mountain of burnables on the floor, he kicks them under the desk. He points his finger towards the offending mass, “I’ll deal with you later, buddy,” a slow smile forming on his lips. “I’m talking to paper,” he sniffs, as he lifts his head towards his clean desk. All but one letter remained. And, it was torn and open. “Well, shit.” Reaching for the offending document, Clifford flips it over, careful not to cause any more damage than necessary. The face, usually containing information such as an address for the recipient, the sender, and the profile matching number, was completely blank. “Unusual...” he creaks. But, there was clearly something inside. And, he was curious. The few remaining fibers slip away from each other as he pulls out an introduction note card. The penmanship is beautiful, he notes. Painstakingly perfect calligraphy, written small, as if to cram everything that needed to be said in such a small frame. The way the L’s, G’s, and Y’s swoop, confidence. Greasy fingerprints mar the edges, but do not take away from its artistry. Clifford imagines he can smell chipped beef rations emanating from the fatty smudges. Waving the card in front of his face, cigarette smoke too. Dear 0934233, If dear cupid is right with all her infinite wisdom, and successful in her endeavors, we are a match for the ages, my dear little bird. Please bless me with the knowledge of a name, if you are courageous enough to write a proud man with a world of love to give. I will not burden you with mystery, I will be forthcoming straight away. I am balding. Yours truly, SGT. Alfred Rufus Rafferty “Hmmmpph!” Was this supposed to be a joke? Clifford scowls towards the door, a small smile crawling it’s way to his eyes, but no further. Alice’s silhouette, ear pressed to the door, fills his mind’s eye. He reaches for the stylograph, grabbing a single sheet of stationary with the other hand, and begins to write. Dear Alfred... I fear if I write, I will be blinded by love, if not by the shine of your glossy, exposed forehead. Page 48
49 Publizr Home