a dabbler in love letters

Peter hadn't received a love letter in 12 years. Even then, it had been more of a break up letter than a love letter. In the letter, his girlfriend, who lived two states away, had quoted a pop song, "How can we be lovers if we can't be friends?" His response: "How can we be friends when you write shit like that?" And that had been his last love letter. Since then, the odd emailed declaration of love had come his way, but nothing tangible and certainly nothing memorable.

One night, when his most recent ex-girlfriend had curled up in an ancient lazyboy for a painfully detailed phone call with her mother, he had sat in her room and looked through her stuff. Most interesting had been her old sketchbook, from when she had entertianed dreams of being a Serious Artist. She had drawn pictures of her high school sweetheart in various stages of consciousness and repose. Sometimes he was upright and alert, other times she drew him sprawled out on the floor, drool accumulating in his messy hair.

Between the drawings were small notes left for the ex, "I'll be back soon, sweetie. Just going to get some supplies." "Make dinner for yourself tonight. I'll be out with the girls. I love you!" "If you have time, please come meet me at the coffee shop. I'm working late." She had never drawn Peter, nor had she written him a letter.

After they broke up, Peter started crafting lovers notes, but not to anyone in particular. He would take friend's notebooks while they were using the bathroom, or while they stepped out for a minute, open the books to the middle and write small intimacies: "Don't forget to change the kitty litter!" "Your Mom called. Let's stay in tonight." "Last weekend was so much fun. Thanks for making my birthday so special." "I am so so so lucky to be with you." He would take napkins in deli's and write anonymous confessions of love and then leave them in public places for the next person who appeared to find. He slipped them between pages of library books, or leave them on coffee shop tables. He never stuck around to witness their discovery.

One night, walking home from choir practice, he found a pile of books outside a house. He checked the titles, and grabbed a copy of In The Night Kitchen. He thought he could read it to his nephews. He started leafing through it as he walked. A letter fell out onto the sidewalk.

"I Brian C. will never harass or cause personal distress to Helen Steinberger. This is a personal apology for the date of 1-3-97."

When he got home, he stuck the note to his refrigerator. He looked up Helen Steinberger on Google and found out she had been eighteen when the note was written. Now she was married and the mother of a little boy. She had lived in the same city as him at one point, but now she was in Des Moines. Her Facebook status indicated that she was currently enjoying a coffee in the sun while watching children at the park.

The next love letter he wrote was several years later, and it was to the woman who he eventually asked to marry him.