The Storm
LANDON P. FITZROY, ESQ.
Lo,
Forgive the formal stationery, but it’s all I had handy, and the way I see it, my choices were either not to write to you as soon as possible (unthinkable, idiotic, not to be borne, etc. etc. etc.) or to write to you on this, and have you think I might be kind of an asshole.
And maybe I am an asshole because you probably aren’t interested in a letter from some thirty-year-old lawyer who has maybe five years before his hairline gives up the ghost and his love of bourbon and barbecue finally catches up with his waistline, but on the offhand chance that you are happy to get such a letter, I’m leaving this for you at The Line.
The bartender there is probably used to having moony-eyed guys such as myself passing you notes because I can’t imagine who could walk into that place, see you, and not want to know everything there is to know about you.
And you are probably used to men telling you you’re a knockout.
Which you are, make no mistake, but I wanted you to know that that’s not why I’m writing.
I’ve seen a lot of pretty girls in my life, Lo.
“Pretty” isn’t what has me awake at four in the morning, writing this with hands that, if I’m honest, are shaking a little bit.
It’s going to sound stupid, but when I walked into The Line tonight and saw you there by the bar, I swear to God, it was like you just … glowed. Like there was a life force inside you that couldn’t help but shine out.
Like you swallowed starlight.
I just reread that, and I’m going to be very honest, Lo, there’s a part of me that wants to cross it out because you’ll probably think it’s A) a line and/or B) almost unbearably cheesy.
If you want to show this letter to your friends and make fun of it, I wouldn’t blame you one bit.
But I couldn’t sleep until I let you know that even if I never see you again, I’m pretty sure you’re going to haunt me for a long, long time.
(But I really hope to see you again.)
LPF