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Dear B,

Who knows how I would start? When was the last time I had to formulate an opening. There was a time I’d have thought of one, second thing in the morning, after thinking of you. There was a time.

The best books are the ones that make you want to write; your mind full-borne; pregnant. I’ve been reading one of those books lately, and one of the stories reminded me of us, and that had never happened before, though I look for you all the time in places, fictional and real. I thought of how you held my face and it broke my heart. My marriage is hanging by a thread and all I can think of is you as I knew you and how if I opened that door I would never be able to close it. My marriage is imbalanced, inherently (even the ones before are tainted, not that they matter). (My marriage is my marriage and it’s a different kind of love, more intractable, like a root system.) Who knows, you might be some kind of cult member by now. A truther of some kind, a nutjob with too many guns and too much time on their hands. But really the truth, the scary part, is that even if you were, I would still. Love you, I mean, a little bit.

Because the facts are these: you held my face and it broke my heart; you were so shy unless you were with me, then you buzzed like static; all that time I spent waiting for that little green circle beside your name. Your head on the crook of my arm when you asked me to read out loud to you, and I was reading Less than Zero, of all things. All the kissing, all the kissing, all that kissing. One night on the way home from Dundrum, drinking each other on the top floor of the bus, right at the front. Then I knew that everything they say about falling in love is true; all the pop songs, all the novels. Corny as shit but one hundred percent accurate. Remember that, Higgs, for when you live it. (Because who am I writing this for except the heir of my digital trove. I won’t open that door.)

Anyway. You’re almost thirty eight now. I met you when you were twenty five. Your daughter is twelve. She was born the day before my birthday. These are the facts. My marriage is hanging by a thread and my son is joyous in the presence of his father. In the morning I will get up to feed the child and the dogs. It’s an hour to get anywhere from here. Halfway across the world you must be sound asleep, or on the verge of it. Dream of me. Dream of me.