many
interesting things to talk about.
"I didn't know that," she said.
"Yeah, it's because it's dry. They sleep to
retain moisture."
The shadows on the other side weren't
menacing or claustrophobic or lonely – well, they might have
been, but Drear wouldn't have noticed. He only noticed the people,
and the people drew the night outside the window close, drew it up
around themselves, comforting, cozy. They , not the
landscape, not the shadows – Drear didn't notice those – they made the night interesting. He didn't care for the
places.
He came for the people. People like Eyes.
And Eyes came to him.
"What about fish?" she said.
"What about them?"
"In the desert. What do the fish do?"
"Fish in the desert?"
"At the oases and the like."
"Oh. I don't know. I don't think it's their
job to retain moisture. They live in a pond or whatever, right? So
it's the pond's job to stay wet."
"So the pond sleeps."
"Maybe."
"And the desert?"
"What about it?"
"Does it sleep?"
"I don't know."
And so they talked.
They talked about things that didn't matter
– that didn't matter unless you were a snail, or a fish, or a
desert, or a pond, or Drear or Eyes. They talked until the silver
light turned gold.
The glare of the sun hit the window, and
Drear tapped a finger a couple of times on the key with a picture
of a sun. The computer's screen fought with the natural light for a
second, then brightened.
It didn't matter, though. He wouldn't need
it again until the next night.
"Sun's up here. Past my bedtime."
"Goodnight."
"Goodnight." He sat back and yawned. One
finger tapped the mouse and the window closed.
Love
Letters
From the Plains
ONE
My love,
I want to grow old with you.
We can grow old together in a little
apartment – we don't need much space. Who wants to grow old with
space? Just a couple of chairs – we don't need a whole set. Who
wants to grow old with chairs? A table – one will do. Who wants to
grow old with tables? Some curtains (so we won't corrupt the
neighborhood children) and a bed and a couple pillows will do –
just a couple. Who wants to grow old with pillows?
No.
I want to grow old with you.
Just you. Just you and me in a little
apartment with a window or two and a door to the world.
That's all we need.
We don't even need to leave.
We don't need to leave even when it's sunny.
Even when it's the fourth of July and there are fireworks and
everyone's at the park and there are picnics. Even when it's New
Years and there's a party with champagne and cheese and little hors
d'oeuvres. Even when it's happy hour and drinks are half off and
there's a live band and no cover. Even when it's opening night for Indiana Jones 12 or Pirates 23 and the lines wind
around the corner of the theater. We'll download them later to
watch with pizza and bathroom breaks. (If we get a porn file by
accident, it's okay. We can watch it anyway if it doesn't have a
virus (but we'll open it on a Mac to be safe.) We'll get the real
thing later.) Maybe later we'll go to the theater when the crowds
have dispersed, when they've gone home to write bad reviews, when
they've forgotten about the movies. We'll go then.
We don't need to go out (except for Indiana Jones 12 or Pirates 23 when the crowds are
all gone.) Day-to-day, we don't need to leave our little space with
a couple of chairs and pillows and a table and a bed. That's all we
need.
Besides, Pizza Hut and the mailman and
BitTorrent deliver.
I want to grow old with you.
I want to grow old with you sitting in our
little space, cozy and bundled up when it's cold. Just reading.
I'll say Hi, sometimes, from across the
room. And I'll smile when your messages pop up while I'm reading
the news – even if it's sad. They'll be short, the messages – maybe
even just smileys. I'll smile when I see one from you and I'll send
one back because I want to see you smile too when I look up across
the room.
Then at the end of the day when the
interesting things to talk about.
"I didn't know that," she said.
"Yeah, it's because it's dry. They sleep to
retain moisture."
The shadows on the other side weren't
menacing or claustrophobic or lonely – well, they might have
been, but Drear wouldn't have noticed. He only noticed the people,
and the people drew the night outside the window close, drew it up
around themselves, comforting, cozy. They , not the
landscape, not the shadows – Drear didn't notice those – they made the night interesting. He didn't care for the
places.
He came for the people. People like Eyes.
And Eyes came to him.
"What about fish?" she said.
"What about them?"
"In the desert. What do the fish do?"
"Fish in the desert?"
"At the oases and the like."
"Oh. I don't know. I don't think it's their
job to retain moisture. They live in a pond or whatever, right? So
it's the pond's job to stay wet."
"So the pond sleeps."
"Maybe."
"And the desert?"
"What about it?"
"Does it sleep?"
"I don't know."
And so they talked.
They talked about things that didn't matter
– that didn't matter unless you were a snail, or a fish, or a
desert, or a pond, or Drear or Eyes. They talked until the silver
light turned gold.
The glare of the sun hit the window, and
Drear tapped a finger a couple of times on the key with a picture
of a sun. The computer's screen fought with the natural light for a
second, then brightened.
It didn't matter, though. He wouldn't need
it again until the next night.
"Sun's up here. Past my bedtime."
"Goodnight."
"Goodnight." He sat back and yawned. One
finger tapped the mouse and the window closed.
Love
Letters
From the Plains
ONE
My love,
I want to grow old with you.
We can grow old together in a little
apartment – we don't need much space. Who wants to grow old with
space? Just a couple of chairs – we don't need a whole set. Who
wants to grow old with chairs? A table – one will do. Who wants to
grow old with tables? Some curtains (so we won't corrupt the
neighborhood children) and a bed and a couple pillows will do –
just a couple. Who wants to grow old with pillows?
No.
I want to grow old with you.
Just you. Just you and me in a little
apartment with a window or two and a door to the world.
That's all we need.
We don't even need to leave.
We don't need to leave even when it's sunny.
Even when it's the fourth of July and there are fireworks and
everyone's at the park and there are picnics. Even when it's New
Years and there's a party with champagne and cheese and little hors
d'oeuvres. Even when it's happy hour and drinks are half off and
there's a live band and no cover. Even when it's opening night for Indiana Jones 12 or Pirates 23 and the lines wind
around the corner of the theater. We'll download them later to
watch with pizza and bathroom breaks. (If we get a porn file by
accident, it's okay. We can watch it anyway if it doesn't have a
virus (but we'll open it on a Mac to be safe.) We'll get the real
thing later.) Maybe later we'll go to the theater when the crowds
have dispersed, when they've gone home to write bad reviews, when
they've forgotten about the movies. We'll go then.
We don't need to go out (except for Indiana Jones 12 or Pirates 23 when the crowds are
all gone.) Day-to-day, we don't need to leave our little space with
a couple of chairs and pillows and a table and a bed. That's all we
need.
Besides, Pizza Hut and the mailman and
BitTorrent deliver.
I want to grow old with you.
I want to grow old with you sitting in our
little space, cozy and bundled up when it's cold. Just reading.
I'll say Hi, sometimes, from across the
room. And I'll smile when your messages pop up while I'm reading
the news – even if it's sad. They'll be short, the messages – maybe
even just smileys. I'll smile when I see one from you and I'll send
one back because I want to see you smile too when I look up across
the room.
Then at the end of the day when the
Similar Books
