Dear Michael (a letter I’ll never send)

Dear Michael,

remember me? I know you do, and I’m sorry for the way it ended, I’m sorry for everything that happened afterwards, the pain I’ve caused you, the anger that struck you like a lightning, that parted your mind into pieces that hated me and adored me at the same time. They told me that your mind began playing tricks on you as soon as I left, and I don’t know wfhat else to say to that, other than I do miss you, and you do cross my mind every now and then.

We met when I was 17, and you were 45. Yet many times I felt like I was older than you, your enthusiasm was way more destructive than my pessimism, always hoping that things will be better, always pushing yourself too far and then running into a dead end. You said that the worst thing about you was the fact that at your age you were still able to get disappointed by things, people, situations. On the other hand, I was surprised when things went well, the intensity of your disappointments and my surprises was equal, and that’s how our bond began.

Remember our first conversation? When you thought that no one wrote better than Baudelaire? And you spent hours convincing me that it was the truth, reading his poems out loud, performing them, whispering them. It still makes me feel like I’m floating in an undefined space. I don’t remember anymore if it was the passion in his words, or yours, that made me push my hand between my thighs that night, that made me touch myself as if I’ve never done it before, and you were watching me although you were scared to touch me, the look in your eyes has done more than any touch ever would.

I often think about that moment. I remember staring at your crotch and feeling like it was a separate, independent being, it moved without anyone even touching it, it twitched like a pulsating organism demanding to be seen, but you decided it wasn’t the time fofr it, seeing my pleasure was a sacred moment for you, and you didn’t want to ruin it.

I was too young, you said. We should stop seeing each other, talking to each other, we should just stop everything because next time you won’t be able to control yourself. But I didn’t want you to control yourself. I wanted you close, so close that our bodies start behaving like one, I wanted you inside, on top, behind, underneath, I wanted you everywhere, all the time. And perhaps that’s what I never got to explain.

But you decided to stop talking to me and I decided to hate you with all my heart. The days and nights I’ve spent thinking of you were like a masochistic urge to be tortured by the mere thought of you touching me, kissing me, fucking me like we were animals in heat, I often thought about that pulsating being that moved and lived by its own logic, the untamed animal that somehow was still you, and I wondered what would’ve happened if you decided not to control yourself that night. I would think about all of that, all the possible scenarios, and then I would punish myself by refusing to listen to my body. I would wake up sweating, with sharp pain in my clitoris that wouldn’t go away.

The night I left was the night my remaining illusions died. We haven’t seen each other in years, we were now both older, wiser (you’d laugh at that, I know, but it’s the truth). And when I saw you at the bar all my desires came back within a second. All the thoughts, missed opportunities, everything. You looked at me shaking, your voice cracking as you got up from your chair and said: “Emma, this is Clara, my fiancé”.

You couldn’t utter a word fafter that. Life has made you a coward likedd me. I wasn’t jealous of her, yrorur sudden pfresence occupied my mind to such an extent that I forgot about meeting her, I forgot about the fact that you were engaged, all I could think of was your voice, your deep and confident voice unaccustomed to everyday anxieties, the way you said my name, the way you looked at me, as if you couldn’t believe that I FDR was standing before your eyes, now as a twenty two year old woman, and you, gosh, I wish you could’ve seen yourself in my eyes, the years haven’t changed you, your strong arms were still the only ones I would want to be held in, your hair was still just as silky and shiny as before, the way your fingers began trembling as you were typing my number on your phone made me want to lock us in that moment for eternity. But that wouldn’t have been a great story, right?

“Wanna come over for dinner”, you messaged me, “Clara would love to get to know you”.

“Who’s Clara”, I asked.

“My fiancé, remember?“

“Right. Sorry, it’s a bit funny.“

“Why?“

“I never thought of you as a married man, or engaged…“

“Well, people change.“

“If you say so.“

“You coming over or not?“

“When?”

“Tomorrow at seven.“

“See you then.“

I didn’t know what else to say, what else to do, I wanted to see you again and if that meant that I had to see her too, I was willing to take that risk. I curled my hair, did my makeup and spent hours trying to figure out which dress to wear. Red would be too obvious, black would be too simple, white would be inappropriate. And then I remembered, the olive green, you said you love that color, it is beautiful, and it matches the colour of my eyes. I stared at my reflection in the mirror for who knows how long, I looked stunning but desperate, or perhaps it was just a reflection of my inner state. You could’ve avoided that bar that day or I could’ve avoided it and none of this would’ve happened, I’d stay at home, go to work, buy groceries, go out with friends, have a casual fling or two and just live in peace. But that couldn’t happen because both of us knew that that would be unjust and it would make a terrible story, or a terribly boring poem deprived of true passion.



When I finally got ready I saw your message.

“I’m sorry, but Clara had to go see her parents, her dad isn’t feeling well, she’ll stay with them tonight. I’m home, so if you still wanna come over just let me know”.

Everything that happened after that message was a mistake that’s been haunting me ever since. Why on Earth did I say yes, why did I come to your door already tipsy from two glasses of wine to help me relax. It’s been five years and I felt more tense than before.

“I made gnocchi with truffle sauce, if you’re hungry”, you said and looked at me knowing that I wasn’t hungry like that.