untitled fiction:

The night he phoned me from Vancouver was the same night I put a letter in the mail for him. It said, "I will be good to you," and I included a cutesy little photo of us that we did in a photo-booth at the mall. We are cheek-to-cheek in the little black-and-white square and our eyes seem like they belong to other people, now.

He phoned me from Vancouver and he sounded far away. Farther than the west coast; like he was calling from China or New Zealand or the South Pole. I was just about to say, "I've been thinking of you," when he blurted it out.

"There's someone else," he said, and coughed. There were several beats of silence while I thought about the letter -- in my mind it was already floating magically through the clouds across two provinces, knowing its destiny and following an imaginary line from the red mailbox down my street to the little cubby that has his last name on it, in the lobby of his apartment building (because that's how mail gets around, in my head, anyway). And I want to snatch the letter out of the air. Send a trained falcon after it, or a skydiver, or a seven-forty-seven jet airplane.

"Oh." This was all I could think of to say. I was seeing our black-and-white faces, now -- our cheek-to-cheek grins.

"It's been this way for a while," he said, and coughed again.

"Okay," I said, thinking about the way I'd signed my name with a heart next to it. Thinking about my saccharine little x-o-x-o.

"Be good," he said, turning the tone of your voice upwards, trying to sound amiable. I found this little sentence enormously ironic, and maybe if this had been happening to another couple, and if he and I were just standing together on the sidelines watching, I'd mention that fact to him and he'd laugh and say, "you're right; that is ironic," but as it stands I didn't think I should comment on it.

"I guess so," is what I eventually came up with, and he muttered a strangled-sounding "be seeing you" and I pressed the phone down into the receiver.

Outside, at the end of the street, I approached the red mailbox. I opened the little slot, peered inside, tried sticking my hand in. I tried jiggling the box to and fro, as if that would suddenly make my letter shoot out from inside and land safely in my hands. I thought about going back home and getting a screw driver: maybe I could dismantle the entire mailbox, sort through the pile of birthday cards and bills-to-be-paid, locate my letter, and then put the whole thing back together. I thought about contacting Canada Post: maybe they would bring down some sort of Postal SWAT Unit, maybe they already have such a team in place for emergencies like this one. Maybe I could throw a lit match down the little slot. As a last resort, I kicked the mailbox and then jumped around in pain on one foot for a while. None of these ideas, while brilliant, would work.

So I went home. The roll of stamps were still on the kitchen table. There were no messages on the answering machine, no laughing voice saying, "Darling, I was only kidding! Got you good, didn't I? Anyway, I love you, and sweet dreams!" Just my dark apartment, and my enormous, empty bed.

"I will be good to you," I said out loud to the cat, who looked at me strangely and left the room. I let out a snort of laughter -- this whole thing reminded me of a sitcom -- and sat down on my bed. Maybe I could write another letter, to counteract the first. It could be all spiteful and mean, and I could include a photo of us together with his face all inked out with a Sharpie, and there would be no adorable x-o-x-o, and no heart next to my name -- no, I wouldn't even sign my name at all! The paper and stamps and envelopes were just in the next room. If I did it tonight, he'd get both letters at once.

Then I thought about his Someone Else. Someone Else is beautiful and serene, and she'd open the letters before he got home and then they'd look at them together and laugh and think about how glad they were that I was out of the picture, and the two counteracting letters would solidify their relationship. He would smile lovingly at Someone Else and know that he'd made the right decision.

If this were happening to another couple, and he and I were standing together on the sidelines, he'd grimace and say, "She should not have sent that second letter!" And I'd agree, and we'd pop some popcorn and watch the story unfold in all of its gory detail. He would think that sending a second, spiteful letter would be a bad idea. He'd say, "She should know to just let it be."

"Let it be," I whispered into the dark bedroom, and curled up on my side of the bed, hoping he'd at least feel guilty when got the letter I wished I'd never sent.