5 of 188

Write now Article Tools

He was in love with a girl whom he named Sophia, because he thought it fit her black hair and strange, wide eyes. Perfectly oblivious about unrequited love, he wrote a letter to her every day, stuffed and licked a crisp envelope each time, and even put a first-class stamp on each one even though they lived on the same street. Yet he never sent them.

He didn't like watching her from a distance because then he couldn't hear her voice. He knew everyone would think he was crazy, probably a bit more creepy than crazy, but he was in love. He longingly watched from a distance whenever she got out from the house to do her grocery shopping. Running outside, he would try to wave hello, but she put on her sunglasses and turned to look over her left shoulder and was gone before he could even muster up the courage.

He put a flower on her doorstep every evening, even sang a little tune he'd composed as he lay in bed, sleepless, each night, afraid of the next day and her lost glances. Yet he loved her anyway. One night he stayed a little longer, standing on her porch, a rose in his right hand. He was humming, of course, but this time it was a Chopin nocturne. He could not get a particular note and choked; frightened, he gently lay the rose on the mat and backed away, but there came a cold draft and the rose was whisked into the darkness of the bushes.

Sometimes he would like to telephone her, so that he might not have to write her a letter everyday. But he knew this was near impossible; he didn't know her phone number and the telephone book had so many Sophia's....Yet he would forget that the telephone existed, and thought that love was nothing technological.

On an early weekend morning he went outside to pick up the newspaper from the porch, and there she was, washing her car. It was a deep blue sedan and it matched her outfit accordingly. Oh, if only she knew! If only she knew how much he was in love with her, maybe she would give him the time of day. Maybe she would wave hello and smile at him, even from a distance. His heart was loud; he could hear it in his throat and in his ears. Oh well, he thought, love is loud.

He went inside and sat near the window, still watching her as she sprayed the car with a hose. Anyway, it looked like it was going to rain. He smiled sadly, knowing this, knowing her efforts were useless. Yet when she gave his house a quick glance his heart rose to his ears again and he could hear love's loudness clearly singing him into temptation. But he sat stock still, gave a confused look, and stared at the pen and paper on his desk.

Oh well, he thought, I will write her a letter and I will tell her how I loved her from the very very beginning, and infinitely more times now than ever, because she is. Isn't she beautiful, though?

He wrote the letter and stuffed and licked a crisp envelope and even put on a first-class stamp on it even though they lived on the same street. So much for dead letters.

Learn more about this author, Joan Inong.
Click here to send this author comments or questions.

Add your voice

Know something about Short stories: Romance?
We want to hear your view. Write now!