The Letter

I’m sitting in a little cafe, toying listlessly with the coffee set in front of me by a pretty brunette waitress. She reminds me a bit of you, actually, which is probably why I ordered the coffee to begin with. You know how little I care for coffee.

She notices that after ten minutes I’ve only taken one tiny sip.

“Everything alright, sir?” She asks.

“Fine, just fine. It’s a bit hot, that’s all,” I tell her, trying my hardest not to notice your same dark hair and porcelain skin. It’s difficult, though, and for a second I swear I’m gazing into your beautiful hazel eyes, instead of staring at this strange girl. I blink, struggling to notice the differences. Her hair is a a bit longer than yours, pulled up in a tight bun. You always wear yours down, flowing freely to your shoulders. She doesn’t have freckles like you do, and her pale cheeks lack the rosy glow you posses so bountifully. Noticing my scrutiny, the waitress shifts her weight uncomfortably.

“Just call for me when you’d like the check,” she says uneasily before turning to bus the dishes from a neighboring table.

I stare resentfully at the coffee, growing cold in the elegant white cup. You always liked coffee. Took it black, with only one lump of sugar. How you managed it I’ll never know; the one time I tried some from your chipped mug I gagged and coughed and had to spit it out. You laughed, remember? Laughed, and went to fetch me a cup of orange juice from your overcrowded fridge.

Suddenly I can’t stand it one more second.

“Waitress!” I call, waving my hand in the air.


“Ready for the check already?” she asks, surprised.

“No, not yet,” I tell her. She raises an eyebrow. “I was just wondering If I could borrow a pen.”

She reaches into an apron pocket and fishes out a blue ball-point with the cap a bit chewed. “Give it back when you’re done,” she instructs.

Once she’s gone, I gently pull out the napkin from beneath my neglected coffee. There’s a brown ring right smack-dab in the center, identical to all the millions that stain your kitchen table. I uncap the pen and begin writing in my messy scrawl, the swirling cursive letters mingling with the more jagged print as words flow desperately from my fingers.

Dear Amelia,


I miss you...





Post a Comment

Be the first to comment on this article!

bRealTime banner ad on the left side
Site Feedback