Dear Mr. K.
Author: Elsa Rose
Plot Bunny: Bitca78
This story is for Daphne

January 1st, 2001

Dear Mr. K,

You don’t know me, and frankly all I know about you is your name. It’s like this; I have to have someone to talk to. Someone that I can trust; someone who loves me and cares about me, no matter how stupid it sounds – so it seems you’re the one. It really doesn’t matter if you read my letters; after all, you won’t be able to answer them. Something I’ll never know; but, I’d like to think that you’d keep them. You know, Jane Austinish and all that. You can throw them in the garbage, shred them, line your birdcage, or your litter box with them; it doesn’t really matter.  What does is that you’re out there in your home, and I’m in mine, and I have someone, no matter how anonymous, that I can write to – someone who cares enough to listen. I think it’s so much more personal than email.

You notice the date – well, I suppose a lot of people in this world would start a diary or a journal on the first day of the New Year. The problem with using a diary or a journal is that someone could find it. Someone you didn’t want to know how you felt, could read your words, and discover your soul. This way is much better; you’ll never know me and I’ll never know you, not physically anyway.

Considering that trust is one of my issues – I think this is a great way for me to have it.

Trust. Don’t get me started on the topic; the entire concept is a fucking farce. NEVER, and I mean NEVER, believe someone who says it. I mean, really, it’s just a word to placate the masses or the gullible of which I was once one of them.

I mean, I’m not all that naïve, or I like to think I’m not. I grew up in a regular country club kind of house. I had no reason not to trust people. The kids I went to school with all thought I was pretty cool, until the day I declared that Bobby Anderson was hot and not in a sweaty kind of way, though sweaty would have been good. Apparently, I immediately grew an extra head or something and was no longer accepted at the local junior club dances. Who knew getting a hard on for a guy would do that?

I chalked that little bit of strange behaviour up to the aberrations of teens. I mean the average teenager is a tad unstable.

Oops, have to go. I’m going to pop this in the mail on my way out. Thanks for listening, or reading, or lining your birdcage.

Regards,

J

Justin folded the paper and stuffed it into the envelope he’d already addressed. He thought about printing out everything on his computer, and then realized that a handwritten letter was much more personal. And right now, Justin needed the personal touch.

“See you later, Brat,” he said to the heavy metal urn in the corner of his living room.

Justin snorted; the love of his life reduced to a few ashes in a badly made metal urn. He wondered if Ethan had not used him, lied to, or cheated on him all the while professing eternal love. If not for that, would the love of his life be in the ground or scattered to the winds, rather than sitting on his floor? Together forever was what they’d once promised each other. Justin resisted the urge to kick the urn as he hurried past. He’d done it more times than he could count, and it was a bitch sweeping Ethan back into the damn urn.

It was time to get to work. He’d be lucky to get this letter in the mail and still make it on time. It was stupid to continue working when he didn’t have to, and Justin knew it. He could spend time painting or sketching, anywhere in the world. Unfortunately, Ethan Gold had jumped off the bridge in a fit of pique, or was it just to make sure that his lover would stay tied to him forever? Whatever the reason, he had never been able to figure it out.  All he knew was that when his muse, his lover, his partner, and his life had jumped, any desire to paint, sketch, draw or even take a fucking picture with a disposable camera had been taken away.  

Justin ran out of his building and raced to the bus stop. The bus was less than a block away. He managed to slip the letter to the anonymous Mr. K into the mailbox before hopping on to the bus, out of breath but satisfied with himself.

Justin headed to the back of the bus, his breath ragged. He shouldn’t have run so fast. He reached into his jacket and pulled out his inhaler. Fuck, he hated having asthma. He looked out the window feeling better today about life in general than he had in weeks. His brainwave of writing out his life was working. And even better, writing to someone he didn’t know, but had picked out randomly from the phone book, was the best idea yet.

January 4th, 2001

Dear Mr. K,

Well, if I recall, I kind of left you hanging. I didn’t reveal everything about my history of being duped. Now that’s a weird word, duped; but I digress, perhaps it’s the joint I’m smoking, I don’t know. Anyway, let’s see.

School sucked. It was a private school, of course, and so the punks and jocks were of a better class. I mean, not the do-ragged, gun totting homeys of city legend, but still in all they were homophobic pricks each and every one of them with few and I do mean few exceptions. I even managed to kind of fall for one of the jocks, who knew that the odd hand job and occasional blowjob was something to be made fun of in his circle of jerks after football games. Guess whose heart got kicked as well as his ass? No fair, you peeked.

I survived my high school years, oddly enough still gay, and more determined than ever to be out and proud. I went to the university and fell in love, in that order. I pretty much didn’t have a lot to do with my parents anymore. There were more trust issues when they discovered ‘gay’ wasn’t a phase I’d grow out of.

Am I whining? I’ll try not to. I mean, I’m just telling you like it is. I think that writing it down like this will hopefully help me reason out why my life is so fucked up. I mean, lots of guys end up fucked without lube, so to speak. I’m sure not alone in that, but it’s just so strange. It’s like it should have been someone else instead of me. I had a nice mom and dad and grew up in a good neighbourhood. Hell, I was even voted most likely to succeed; that was, of course, before sucking off the captain of the football team.

Sorry, had to re-light. Why is it good dope blows itself out? There should be some kind of study on that. Once again I digress. Oh, and I apologize for writing this evening's meanderings stoned. It seemed like a good idea at the time. I’m snickering here.

Are you old or young? Gay or straight? That’s the disadvantage of plucking your name and address out of the phone book. There should be some kind of law that puts a picture beside each name and number.  Oh well; it’s the bottom of the kitty litter pan for this letter.

I was at work this week and realized that being employed kind of sucks. I think I’ll find something to do where I’m the boss. I mean, I do have a business degree; that and five bucks will buy you a latte. I even have a little tiny key that’s says I was hot shit at the university. A la de da ivy league university no less, thanks to daddy dearest. Did I mention that’s where I met the man of my dreams? Well, not actually of my dreams, but fuck he was good. Talk about a great fuck, and he didn’t look bad either. He was there on a scholarship but he was good, damn good. He almost scored as high as me. Of course, he had to work like a son of a bitch to come close, unlike me. I didn’t know until much, much later, years in fact, how much he’d resented the fact that studying something I hated came so easy to me.

This sucks. I have to find something to eat. I’ll write again.

J

For some reason Justin drew a small picture at the bottom of the page. He didn’t even realize that he was doing it. He was stoned, and it just seemed like the thing to do. On the bottom of letter number two was a clue for his Mr. K  to find; if he ever wanted a clue, that is.  Justin chuckled at the thought of his Mr. K wearing a Sherlock Holmes hat and holding out a huge magnifying glass, searching for clues as to his whereabouts.

Justin sighed, his second letter written. He was too stoned to analyze his feelings about this one. Not wanting to take the chance of missing the afternoon’s post, he pulled himself together to put the letter in an envelope, stamp and sealed it, then walked down the stairs to find the nearest mailbox.

He ignored Ethan’s urn sitting in the corner. Ethan was easy to ignore when Justin was stoned, which he often was.

For January, the weather wasn’t too bad.  The sun was actually shining, making the dirty piles of snow almost pretty. Justin wondered if his Mr. K. was looking out his window at the snow on the other side of town, or maybe even walking in it like he was now.

Dropping the letter in the mailbox, Justin headed for the restaurant on the corner. He still felt naked without his messenger bag that had held all of his art supplies; although not naked enough, of course, to actually pick it up from the corner of his bedroom and start carrying it with him again.  He glanced at the kid who looked cold and always seemed to be sitting in the doorway of the drycleaners.

“Hey kid, I’ll buy you a coffee,” Justin said as he stood in front of the huddled mass of jackets and old coats.

“Why?” the kid looked up and glared at Justin.

“I don’t know, maybe I like buying coffee. If you want something warm to drink, I’ll be in the restaurant.”  Justin really didn’t care; the kid could come in out of the cold or stay in the doorway. He wasn’t actually sure why he’d invited him in the first place; it must have been the effects of the dope. He opened the restaurant door and shuffled over to his usual booth in the corner. He took the side away from the heater in case the kid followed him.

“Hey kid, get out of here! It’s for paying customers only.”

Justin looked over at the belligerent, apron clad owner of the small diner as he stood behind the counter, his face red with rage.

“The kid is with me, and I’m paying,” Justin yelled. “Hey, Kid! Over here.” He waved the frightened young boy over to his booth. Up close the boy looked like he hadn’t washed or eaten for days. “Go wash up; I’ll order you something.”

“I’m not going to have sex with you,” the kid said quietly.

“Good,” Justin laughed. “Now, go wash up.” He watched the boy disappear into the back and then called out to the pissed off owner. “Two cheeseburgers with fries and two hot chocolates with lots of whipped cream.”

“You can’t trust these street kids you know, mister. I’ve been around for a lot of years, and all they’ll do is steal you blind.”

“Fuck, you can’t trust anybody, so what does it matter?” Justin leaned back in the booth. “Hurry up with the food, I’m starved.”

Justin was staring off into space, his mind blank, thinking about nothing, when the street kid slid into the seat on the other side of his booth. “Hey, you look better with your face washed.”

“Fuck off.”

Justin grinned and continued to stare into space. If the kid didn’t want to talk, no problem; it was fine with him.

Silence hung heavy. The only sounds in the almost empty diner were that of the cook in the kitchen and the wheezing breath of both Justin and the kid.

Two mugs of hot chocolate were put down in front of each of them. The thud of the heavy mug was loud against the tabletop, and caused  the chocolate to almost spill over the side. Justin leaned forward and stuck his finger in the whipped cream, pulled it out, and then licked the cream off. “Not bad,” he said. “But the asshole could have put a cherry on it.”

The kid snickered and licked at the cream on his hot chocolate. “Yeah, right,” he muttered. “Like that’s gonna happen.”

“Garcon, two cherries.” Justin waved his hand and snapped his fingers. The owner glared at him, but put two cherries in a saucer and brought them over, slapping the saucer on the tabletop. “Thanks,” Justin said and grinned.

The cook in the kitchen hit the bell, indicating their order was up, and soon the saucer was joined by two cheeseburgers with fries.

“You ordered food?” The words were said almost reverently. The kid looked at Justin, questions in his eyes.

“Yeah, I hate to eat alone.” Justin plopped one of the cherries on the kid’s hot chocolate.

Still uncertain, the kid looked with longing at his food. He took a sip of the hot chocolate, almost choking on the sweetness of it.

“It’ll taste better if you eat it hot. The guy’s fries suck when they’re cold,” Justin said, picking up the bottle of ketchup and liberally covering his fries. He handed the bottle to the kid. “I’m Justin in case you’re interested.”

“Hunter.”

The kid all but fell on his food, barely taking a breath as he devoured it. When he finished, Justin pushed his own plate over; he’d never seen anyone that hungry. Not even missing a beat, Hunter began to finish what Justin had left.

“Do you want dessert?” Justin asked when Hunter finally stopped eating.

“Another drink would be good.” The words said were almost shy.

“Two Cokes over here,” Justin called out. “Please.”

“It’s been awhile since I ate,” Hunter admitted.

“No kidding.” Justin smiled. He didn’t say anything more. It wasn’t in his nature to pry. He’d learned the hard way not to ask questions; it only gave you grief.

“Thanks.” Hunter stared at Justin, “I guess I could have sex with you if you want.”

“No thanks, not that you aren’t... uh...well, good for asking, but you aren’t my type.”

“You’re not straight, are you?”

“No, your gaydar is working. I’m just not into sex right now. I don’t think I’ll ever be again.” Justin’s laugh was bitter. “Been there, done that, bought the fucking tee-shirt, and it bit me in the ass.”

The two studied their Cokes that had been sullenly delivered.  No one spoke as they slowly drank the sweet liquid. Finally, Justin said, “I’m going home. I need to sleep. You can bunk in the spare room if you want.” He never invited anyone to his apartment, and he wasn’t sure why he did now.

“I’m okay,” Hunter shrugged.

“I’m serious, no strings. Just don’t fucking steal anything.”  Justin stood up. He walked to the counter where he paid the bill. When he got his change, he leaned in and said to the owner, “My tip for you is to be fucking courteous to your customers, even the ones without a lot of money.”  

“You son of a bi…..” the last word of the owner was lost as the door shut behind Justin and Hunter.

“I’m not sure you should have pissed him off like that,” Hunter began. He’d barely been out of the warm restaurant a minute, and already he was shivering. It was a fucking cold Pittsburgh winter.

“Look Kid, my place isn’t great, but it’s warm and paid for. Why don’t you just swallow your pride and stay in the spare room; no strings.” Justin began to walk.

“Aren’t you going to ask me why I’m out here?” Hunter asked, running to catch up to Justin.

“No.” Justin hunkered into the warmth of his parka. “Fuck, it’s cold,” he muttered. He glanced at the mailbox and wondered if his letter was on its way.

“Okay, I’ll stay, but just for tonight. It’ll get better by tomorrow.”

“Yeah, whatever. I’m sure a southern trade wind will unexpectedly blow across Pittsburgh,” Justin sneered. He turned into the doorway that led to his apartment. “I’m up here.”

“You live over a fucking tattoo parlor?” Hunter laughed. “Fucking A.”

“It’s home, sweet home, what can I say?” Justin smiled.

It had been the first piece of property Justin ever owned. Ethan had kept everything in his name, and he hadn’t questioned it. In fact, until Ethan’s lawyer had called, he hadn’t a clue that the son of a bitch had more than a few bucks. He’d left everything to him.  Maybe he’d developed a conscience before he offed himself; he would never know.

The first thing he’d done after he’d surfaced from his initial despair over Ethan’s suicide was to buy the building the tattoo parlor was in. For no other reason than it was conveniently available, and he wanted to get away from the home he’d shared with his lover.  The fact that it would piss off his ex – living over a tattoo parlor – was the icing on the cake.

“Cool place,” Hunter said when he walked through the door. “Did you just move in?”

“No, I’ve been here almost a year.” Justin threw his coat on the floor by the door. He looked around, seeing the place with someone else’s eyes. “I guess I could maybe pick up some furniture one of these days.”

The room was sparsely furnished.  It held two kitchen chairs, a television that sat on the floor, Ethan’s ashes in his jar, and a table with three legs; in place of the fourth leg was a piece of driftwood Justin had brought back from a trip to New England.  His computer, a surprisingly up-to- date laptop, sat securely chained to his kitchen counter. The printer was placed in one of the kitchen cupboards he never used.

Justin shrugged and laughed, “There is a bed in each bedroom. They were here when I moved in.”

Hunter looked around.  “Well, it’s better than a doorway on the street.“

“Help yourself to any food you find, don’t watch TV too late, do your homework, and be a good boy.” Justin laughed. “I’m going to bed.  There are clean towels in the bathroom, and a washer and dryer in that closet over there. I think there’s a clean pair of sweats in the dryer. You’re about my size. See you later.”

Justin disappeared into his room; shut and locked the door. Not used to talking with anyone, the interaction between him and Hunter exhausted him. He threw himself down on the mattress that was on the floor and closed his eyes. It was time to catch some sleep; his shift started soon at the donut shop. It was his escape job to make endless batches of donuts all night long, alone in the back of the shop. Making sure that everything was ready for their first of the morning customers who started to arrive as he left for home at 6 in the morning.

Just before he drifted off to sleep, he wondered if he should have moved Ethan into his room and shuddered at the thought of sleeping with the bastard again.

Hunter stood just inside Justin’s apartment and stared at the closed bedroom door in surprise. The guy just left him alone. He took off his shoes so that he could pad around quietly, and began to explore the apartment. One room was obviously the room he was expected to use. It had a rather nice bed in it that was carefully made up with a colourful, handmade quilt, which was a surprising contrast to the rest of the apartment. The bathroom showed the only bit of luxury in the whole place. There was a stack of thick bath towels, numerous bottles and jars of bath salts, some of which had names that even Hunter recognized as being expensive. He leaned over and began to fill the tub. A hot bath would be heaven.

While the bath filled, Hunter searched out the washer and dryer. He couldn’t remember the last time he had clean clothes.

Brian studied the envelope that he’d taken from his mailbox earlier in the day. He knew without opening it that it had to be from the same person who had sent him the letter a week before.  He leaned back in his office chair and glared at his briefcase, for that’s where the first letter sat.

He’d almost thrown it away a number of times, but for some reason he hadn’t. Now he was in possession of yet another letter. Brian had placed it into his pocket when he’d picked up his mail. He knew it wouldn’t be a letter easily discarded, and he needed time to think about whether he’d even open the thing.

As before he ran through the likelihood of the letter being some kind of weird joke or some kind of situation where the guy was a freak who was stalking him; he wasn’t sure. Both scenarios seemed unlikely, but in this day and age, who really knew?

Brian picked up a letter opener and slowly slid it under the flap of the heavy, vellum envelope. He had to wonder about the person who was writing to him; if it really was some kind of crank, then why was he using such good quality stationary? It was almost as if the stuff was handmade, it was so fine.

“Hey, Brian.”

Brian looked up from the envelope he was holding. “Hey, Mikey,” he greeted his friend as he placed the envelope back on his desk as he prepared to listen to whatever it was that Michael wanted. He always wanted something; he never just stopped by to say hello.

January 8th, 2001

Dear Mr. K,

Have you ever fallen in love? I was working tonight at my Mc Job, and I had time to think about the subject. First of all, while there was a time that I bought into the whole hearts and flowers, sentimental words and roses around the cottage door, I quickly came to realize that for the most part love is just another four-letter word. It could be fuck or shit or cock or cunt – it’s all the same, means nothing, and yet means everything. Of course, the whole idea of love was no doubt thought up by advertising marketing guys. A zillion years ago at the dawn of time. They were no doubt selling the latest in perfume, or some crap to the little woman of the cave.

Did I mention I bought into the whole thing? I mean, you’d think that someone who scored 1500 on their SAT’s would have a clue. Falling for the first bit of boy ass who told me how wonderful, how handsome and talented I was. I should have known it was a crock of shit. Why would I even imagine that after 22 years someone would actually fall in love with me? Like in the fairy tales; happily ever after, true love, until death do you part kind of crap. Well, that part was kind of true. Now that he’s truly dead, and I have his ashes to prove it, I don’t love him anymore; I really don’t.  At least that’s what I keep telling myself. He was a lying sack of shit. How can you love someone like that even after he’s dead? It makes absolutely no sense whatsoever.

Not to be whiney here, but it pretty much sucks what he did, and I’m pretty much stuck with the consequences of his actions.

So, I was out the other day, I wanted to mail your letter, and needed to eat something besides soup, which, by the way, was all I had in the apartment. I found this kid freezing his ass off; you know, one of those street kids. I fed him and brought him back to my place. Now he’s kind of here like a stray dog, and I’m not sure what to do with him. I mean, do I boot him out? He’s not really bothering me other than he expects me to talk once in awhile and, besides, it is still cold out. Shit, I DO NOT WANT TO HAVE ANYBODY ELSE DEPEND ON ME.

Sorry for shouting, but I needed to do that. You know, Mr. K, I see you as ... oh, I don’t know, maybe cool is the word I’m thinking of. . . for reading this. Maybe sitting in your armchair in your nice living room, a fire in the fireplace and wondering why the fuck you are reading this drivel. No doubt, you have family and friends around you who care about you. What’s that like? I mean, does it really happen? Is it yet another mystery – urban legend kind of thing?

I’ll sign off now. I think I’ll buy the kid a pizza or something; he still looks scrawny.

Later,
J 

Justin folded the letter and looked up at Hunter. “You want some pizza?” he asked.

“Sure.” Hunter had been sitting on a pillow on the floor watching the television. “Want me to call?”

“You can call,” Justin said. He knew that the kid was aware of the dozen or more menus by the phone.

“Why don’t you just email?” Hunter asked as he looked through the menus.

“Email who?” Justin said. He licked the envelope and put a stamp in the corner.

“The guy you’re writing to.” Hunter dialed the phone and ordered the pizza for the two of them and included a six-pack of soda. Justin shook his head, but didn’t say anything.

“Writing is more personal,” Justin replied and slipped the envelope in his messenger bag. He’d drop it off on his way to work later.

“Yeah, whatever. I think it’s a waste of time. J, if I got a job, do you think we could maybe buy a sofa or even a soft chair? Sitting on the floor to watch TV sucks.”

“If you go to school, I’ll buy a sofa,” Justin bargained.

“If I go to school, I’d have to have the transcript from the last school. I don’t want to do that,” Hunter admitted. “I don’t want anyone to know where I am.”

“Why, did you kill someone?” Justin joked.

“No, but I don’t want to go back.”

“Fine, how about distance learning instead?" Justin walked over and began to surf the Internet. “Check out this place. You could at least get your high school equivalency.”

“I will if you buy a sofa.” Hunter had come to realize in the few days he’d been living with Justin that the older man was a soft touch.  It wasn’t anything he’d ever take advantage of, but he was tired of sitting on the floor.

“I’ll consider it.” Justin smiled. The kid was all right. It was kind of like having a big dog around, but at least Hunter didn’t need to be taken out for walks.

“And could you put Ethan in the closet?” Hunter had taken to talking to the urn of ashes, joining Justin in his obsession with the dead musician.

“Ethan stays in the living room. I want him to enjoy my freedom.”

“You don’t seem too damn free to me,” Hunter grumbled.

January 12, 2001

Dear Mr. K,

Hey, I bought a sofa today; my first main furniture purchase. The kid and I must have hit a dozen furniture stores before I found one that spoke to me. I must be gay. (That’s supposed to be funny)

I suppose now the kid will want me to buy other shit for the apartment. The sofa will look a bit out of place all by itself, but I won’t give in. I am, after all, the king of my domain.

I invented a new donut last night. I was bored with the same old shit. I mean, if I never see another donut in my life it’ll be too soon. I brought half a dozen back for the kid to eat. He doesn’t seem to mind the rejects as long as it’s food; that’s all he cares about. I don’t remember what I was like at his age. He won’t say, but I suspect he’s about seventeen.

I almost took the bus over to your neighbourhood today. When I wasn’t thinking about donuts I spent most of the night wondering what you looked like. How fucked up can I get? Each time I think I’m at the bottom, there’s another step lower.

I do remember when I was eighteen. I spent a lot of that year in the hospital. It was the result of the football jock and his insecurities. It was about then I discovered that you couldn’t expect unconditional love from your parents. I was glad to escape to college.

I’m thinking of quitting my job, I think I mentioned that before, and starting some kind of business. Doing what, I don’t know. Any suggestions?

I’ve got tons of qualifications for doing absolutely not much of anything. I was, after all, a kept man with a degree. Who knew being a good little wife would be so stifling? Of course, in those days I did have plenty to occupy my time. I fancied myself an artist. I was going to be the next Michelangelo, or maybe give Andy Warhol a run for his money. A real artist wouldn’t give up so easily. I mean, I can barely hold this pen to the paper without throwing up, and all I’m doing is writing. Is there such a thing as pen to paper phobia?

I guess that’s another reason I’m writing. I want to get over the fear of making marks on paper. So having fun yet? Are my words of wisdom adorning your birdcage? Are you just a tiny bit curious, just a tiny bit caring about what makes me, me?  Enquiring minds want to know.

Yours,
J

This time, after he sealed the envelope, he doodled a seal on the back. It was actually a quick sketch of Hunter done anime style. It was done so quickly and so unconsciously, that Justin didn’t even notice he’d done it.

Brian found he was anticipating the letter from J and wasn’t disappointed to find it arrived like clockwork, four days after the last one. He wasn’t sure, but he thought the tone of the letter sounded more positive. He’d made a decision; today he was taking the letters to a former trick and now a friend of his, Andy Remson. Doctor Andy Remson, a psychiatrist with a private practice not far from Kinnetik.  Brian needed to know if he should keep them or toss them. Was he crazy to wonder about the man who was writing them, or if he should worry about the man’s sanity? He also wanted to know just why; he wanted to know.

“So, Andy, what do you think?” Brian asked the question that had been bothering him for sometime. “Is this guy a nut case, should I be worried?” Brian crossed his long legs as he lounged on Andy’s chaise in his office.

“Are you worried, Brian?” his friend asked.

“Cut the mumbo jumbo, Andy, I’m not here to have my head shrunk.” Brian laughed. “Just answer the damn question.”

“From what these letters tell me, your letter writer is troubled, confused, upset, depressed, and angry. But then again, who in hell isn’t these days? If you want me to tell you if he’s dangerous, well, he is, but only to himself. Is he a stalker? I doubt he’s ever seen you. I really do think he just picked your name out of a phone book. No doubt he feels that because you are truly anonymous, he can shrink his own head once every few days, and all for the price of a stamp.” Andy placed the letters back in the file folder Brian had given him and handed them back.  “My suggestion is that if they bother you, don’t read them. There isn’t a return address, so you can’t return them, but you can throw them in the trash.”

“That’s it? I have to buy you dinner and that’s all you can tell me? Hell, Andy, I knew all that already,” Brian laughed and sat up.

“If you knew, then why ask?” Andy laughed at his friend. “I’ll call Charlie; we’ll meet you at the restaurant.”

“Later, Andy,” Brian saluted him. He put the file folder in his briefcase and headed out the door.

January 16th, 2001

Dear Mr. K,

The sofa arrived, and I admit, it does beat sitting on the floor. The kid was right. I also bought a matching chair. Can’t break up the set, you know. The kid may domesticate me yet.

The kid is now working on getting his high school equivalency, while I still make donuts. I can’t believe how many of the things he eats! He spent my last shift with me. Said he wanted to see what I did, but what he really wanted was to eat until I was sure he was going to explode.

The old lady in the next apartment was happy to see the sofa delivered. She was bugging me about the lack of furniture for weeks. But, really, I did have a couple of chairs and a table and, of course, a bed. What the hell did I need more things for? Things are only something you have to deal with later, or someone else has to when you die like a certain scum, sucking fucker did. I mean, really, jumping off a fucking bridge? That’s so Harlequin Romance-ish.

I’m thinking of getting a tattoo. What do you think of that? I’m going to go for something meaningful. Unfortunately, so far, there isn’t anything meaningful I could come up with. Good thing my loving husband had a tattoo – it made it much easier to identify his body. I wonder how many of his lovers shed a tear at never seeing that small piece of art again? I have it, you know, the tattoo. A little piece of my beloved.  Of course, it’s a tad crispy, well, it’s ash, really, but you get the point; last laugh and all that.

Have you ever wondered if there are a certain number of times that you tell a lie, that eventually you truly believe that lie so much that the words are automatic? Like saying I love you. How many times does one have to say those three little words when they don’t mean it, to finally maybe mean it? Have you ever thought about that? I have. I figure my beloved meant it at the end. I think he finally loved me, or thought he did when he jumped; only he was so fucked in the head that he thought everything would be better when he was dead. And you know what? He was almost right.

Later,
J 

Justin doodled a picture of Ethan, head thrown back in the throes of musical ecstasy, his violin tucked under his chin, before folding the paper and sealing it into the already addressed envelope.  He got up and glared at the metal urn in the corner. “Stupid fucker,” he muttered and threw his pen at the urn, hitting it precisely with a satisfying ring of metal.

“That could be considered spousal abuse,” Hunter said from his lounging position on the sofa. He was eating popcorn and watching a movie.

“Fuck him,” Justin replied. “Stop eating on the new sofa.”

“Buy a table that doesn’t lean, and I’ll eat at the table,” Hunter said, his mouth full of popcorn.

“What next, dishes that match?” Justin asked. “I’m going out.”

“Yeah, yeah, you have to mail your letter. Put your hat on, your voice is raspy, I think you’re getting a cold.”

“Yes, Mother,” Justin joked. “I’ll pick up something to eat.”

“You know, we could go shopping like normal people instead of always eating take out shit,” Hunter grumbled.

“There was a time when you were damn glad of take out shit,” Justin snorted.

“Yeah, well, a salad or fruit would be nice before our teeth fall out from scurvy.”

“What do you know about scurvy?” Justin answered as he put on his coat.

“I’m studying about it. We need to eat stuff besides take out.”

“Put your coat on, then; I’m not carrying a bunch of heavy bags back from the store myself.”

“No shit, we’re going to the store?” Hunter stood up, pleased that his nagging had worked. “Cool. Can we stop at the furniture store on the corner? They have the most awesome table and chairs in there.”

Justin groaned and rolled his eyes, but he managed to turn away before his smile broke through.

Dear Mr. K,

I feel like you know me now. I’m going to assume you aren’t lining your birdcage with my letters, but you’re rather looking forward to these pearls of wisdom. I mean why not? You are, after all, my very own fantasy man.

My fantasy man, I’ll describe him. He should be taller than I am, so that when he holds me I feel protected. He should be more butch than nelly, and have a swimmer’s build. You know, slim but muscular, especially his arms – hmm...maybe I have an arm fetish. Damn, I hope you have arms like that, because I’d loved to be held by them (grinning here).

I think I’d like him to have just enough body hair to make him manly, but not so much that I mistake him for a cat when we’re in bed. You know, enough so that when I lie in his arms (there I go with the arms again) I can let my fingers twist and caress the hair on his chest, tracing it down that delicious path to the fun bits of a man.

You, or rather my fantasy man, will, of course, have an exceptionally nice looking fun bit. I’d better stop now, or I’ll have to do something with my own fun bits.

This morning when I came home from work, the kid had pasted a picture of Angelina Jolie on hubby’s urn. He thought she looked better than what I had there. I pointed out that it would piss off the little guy, since he preferred boys; many, many boys, but the kid wouldn’t budge. When he goes out to get me a Starbucks, I’m changing the picture to one of a cat. It’s still pussy, but not quite the same.  

So I’ve put the kid on an allowance. Does that make me a sucker? I mean, what do I know about him? He seems like a good kid, but then hubby seemed like a good hubby. I know, I know, trust issues.

But he’s working hard; he challenged the GED exam and aced it. Now he’s working on some credits for a degree in something that’s hard to understand, much less spell.  He keeps the place clean and my laundry done, and lately he’s been cooking our meals, which is good, because I was beginning to retch when I think of take out.

I suppose you’re saying that I’m rationalizing why I’m giving him an allowance, and I guess I am. But, fuck it, it's only money. It's not like I have any great desire to do anything with it myself.

I was noticing your address, as I always do. I mean, I write it often enough. Anyway, I realized your address is close to downtown. I have to wonder if I’ve ever seen you on the street. Maybe we’ve walked by one another, or stood side-by-side in Starbucks, or even sat together at the movies. Well, maybe not the movies, I hate crowds, so I don’t go, but you get the point.

Maybe I could be your dog, like the kid is mine. Stranger things have happened.

Love, (and we know what that word means)
J

Justin doodled himself sitting at the feet of a man, dog collar securely held in the man’s hand, before folding the letter.

“Want me to mail that?” Hunter asked. He was about to go out and had put on his coat.

“No, it’s something I have to do myself.” Justin licked the envelope and carefully sealed it. “It’s personal.”

“No shit,” Hunter snorted. “That pile of muck in the corner must have worked your head over good.”