To My Dearest

To My Dearest
By: simple spider



I love watching her work at home. She is sitting across the room from me, silently nibbling on the end of her pen, thinking about how she is going to phrase the next sentence of her proposal.  It is incredibly sexy.  And here I sit trying to think of some way to communicate just how taken I am with her.

I look at my computer screen, it reads “To my dearest – draft 4/21/12.” One insignificant love letter, it seems simple enough. But nothing is coming as my fingers lamely hover over the keyboard. How do I capture this emotion without sounding completely unoriginal?

It's been almost an hour now and not a paragraph has formed in my head.  Everything feels so pathetic when I try to express it. She is making dinner now, her strange country apron, the one with the big cow on it, looks funny, too quaint for a girl that has never been out of the city.  She is setting the table, making sure each place is perfect, coaxing me to come and eat.  I feel so childish as I have wasted so much time on a love letter that I have still yet to begin.

I am hoping to make her feel all those wonderful little emotions she makes me feel.  I want her to know the heights she takes me to, the secret honesty she brings out in me.  I want her to know the spark her presence has brought into my otherwise grayed out existence.  But how do I really tell her?

Three hours now.  She has finished with dinner and is leaning against me as I type, or at least think about typing.  There is something amazing about the way she playfully runs her hand through my hair, not really thinking, as she loses herself in the pages of whatever idealistic book she happens to be reading.

She is a vegetarian.  An environmentalist.  A volunteer.  She is someone who cries for people she has never meet, who tries to do things because they are the right thing.  I never could see the odds in stuff like that.  What can she possibly see in me?  Why can't I find the striking words that go beyond this lacking description?  Why can't I express my love in more than simple hot button words, happy phrases that sound like a tired eulogy?

She is going to bed now.  I am still here, hunched over my computer, trying to find some way to redeem myself.  All I wanted was to express one little gesture. Now the expectation of what I want to say is crushing any of the tiny words I manage to type.

She is curled up beside me, almost sleeping, telling me to put the computer away.  I know I can always write tomorrow, but to stop now seems like a failure.  How can she respect a man who doesn't follow through?  She mumbles incoherently about how comfortable the bed is, that I'll like the soft blankets, that it's time to stop ignoring her.  She makes the emphasis on this last point.

But I'm not.  I'm thinking about her.  She is the reason I'm still up.  I just want to say the right thing.

It is the middle of the night and I am still awake, wondering where my words have magically vanished to.  I can write about killing, destruction, fear, greed, and even make a fair pass at lust.  When it comes to her, to love, I am mute.  I stroke her hair and hold her close as she sleeps.  For a moment her warmth breaks my attention from the computer screen.  I listen to the sound of her soft breaths, to the pleasant silence of the night.  She instinctively pulls my arm around her, as if I am a blanket.  She seems content, and I stroke her hair as I enjoy the moment.  I realize that I don't want anything more.

I sigh.  If only I could tell her.  How will she know if I never tell her?  What if I go my whole life and never tell her?

To my dearest,

My love, I wish to express to you an ever present depth of love...blah, blah, blah! 

I strike the keys hard.  She grumbles beside me, her dream momentarily interrupted.  This is what my frustration causes!  I am the anti-love! I sound like an android created by a greeting card company!

The thought of throwing my laptop out the window suddenly occurs to me.

My mind feels like it's clogged with cement so I get up and wash the dishes.  Sometimes it helps me think.  She is nice enough to leave them out so I can do them late at night. As I fold the laundry, lost in blank thoughts, I wonder how the great poets managed to describe love without sounding completely insane. I lay out both of our clothes for tomorrow, staring at the computer as it taunts me from my desk. How can you express love through such a cold, technological machine?

It's 4am and tomorrow is going to be hard.  I am walking our puppy, Mr. Wuffkins, and I wonder what he has to be so chipper about this early in the morning.  Though fatigue is starting to wear down my frustration it gives me no comfort.  Not only do I not have a love letter, with no sleep work is certain to be hell tomorrow.

I climb back into bed and she rolls over, her face full of sleep, and kisses me.  “Thank you,” she whispers.  A moment later she is asleep again, my arm back to playing the role of blanket.

Thank you for what, I think.

***

I wake up the next morning and she has already left for work.  On the dinning room table there are pancakes.  Two places are set, one with a half eaten breakfast on it. My computer is sitting next to my empty plate, coffee is already brewed. I smile, she knows my morning routine.  I open up the laptop and look at the rambling document that is supposed to express my feelings.

No doubt she has read it.  She loves going through my stuff, but I even like her nosiness.  Below the "love letter" she has written me a little message, a critique of sorts. 

"I'm glad you're working on the love story again!  You usually write such dark stories, it's nice to see you trying to write something happy for a change.  I liked the main character, he is much better than the last one, not so full of himself.  I love it when oblivious people fall in love!  I can't wait to see the girl! Let me see the rest when I get home tonight.  I love you!"

I pour a double shot of syrup over my pancakes.  I look at the clock and sigh; I don't have to go in for another hour.  I save the file and place it in a hidden folder labeled “To my dearest.”  I open a new word document and begin to type: "To my dearest – draft 4/22/12"