My guitar teacher when I was a child was called Greta and she was a beautiful woman. She followed her parents from Belgium to Canada during the sixties and soon became addicted to cocaine.
She wore flowing white dresses most of the time, and her fingernails were never painted. Her hair was blond and wavy, her lips red and her skin a pale white. I was only eight when our affair began.
Before every kiss, Greta felt compelled to reveal a secret about herself. Most of the time I was too short of both leg and arm to understand what she meant but her accent made these secrets seem vital and earth-shattering. Words like "Strap-on" and "homeless man" were blurry blurbs but fluttered from her lips to my ears like drunk butterflies.
We made love often, usually after she taught me a song written by one Stevie Nicks. My friends at school laughed upon discovering that I was no longer a virgin but I knew that one day, they too would no longer be virgins. Save for the one with horrific acne, I was right.
Greta is now an anchor at FOXNews and we no longer speak.
Friday, July 18, 2008
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
A Love Letter
The following is a letter I uncovered in a dusty old chest. I found the chest on the beach, buried deep in sand. The sender and receiver are unknown.
Dear Sir,
It's been weeks since we've spoken and even longer since we've seen one another. I don't understand why you have chosen this course of action. To say your motives are mysterious would be a grave understatement.
I understand that these are trying times for you. You have far more to worry about than me, and although I may comprehend it, I will not accept it. I cannot accept it. I walk the streets of New York and there you are--your bold and noble image ablaze on television screens and newsreels, and clutched by boys with papers in their hands. Your name travels between the lips of an entire planet and your resolve fills the cracks of the sidewalks on which I walk.
You are there and I am here. Our night was one, and the details are beginning to dim. I remember your furious grasp and I remember the way you drank wine. Your lips were thin like paper, your eyes, filled with the fire of an army and the torture of a lonely writer. You cradled me much like a doting father cradles a child he loves. I know you love me or once did.
There are rumors here of terrible things that you've done. Some Jewish colleagues of mine have heard disconcerting reports--things of a very violent nature. They are disturbing but inconclusive. I refuse to believe that a man so astute at handling my clitoris with his tongue, could be responsible for such unspeakable crimes against humanity. You, a man who caressed my supple breasts with so much poetry in each touch, could never be responsible for the rumored extermination of an entire race.
I can't believe anything they say about you here because I love you. I cannot take being apart from you any longer. I met some soldiers last month and they offered me a voyage to France free of cost. I leave tomorrow and will arrive on the beaches of Normandy on June 6th. I will be in Berlin in no time. Wait for me my love, because God only knows I have waited for you.
Love and kisses,
Me.
Dear Sir,
It's been weeks since we've spoken and even longer since we've seen one another. I don't understand why you have chosen this course of action. To say your motives are mysterious would be a grave understatement.
I understand that these are trying times for you. You have far more to worry about than me, and although I may comprehend it, I will not accept it. I cannot accept it. I walk the streets of New York and there you are--your bold and noble image ablaze on television screens and newsreels, and clutched by boys with papers in their hands. Your name travels between the lips of an entire planet and your resolve fills the cracks of the sidewalks on which I walk.
You are there and I am here. Our night was one, and the details are beginning to dim. I remember your furious grasp and I remember the way you drank wine. Your lips were thin like paper, your eyes, filled with the fire of an army and the torture of a lonely writer. You cradled me much like a doting father cradles a child he loves. I know you love me or once did.
There are rumors here of terrible things that you've done. Some Jewish colleagues of mine have heard disconcerting reports--things of a very violent nature. They are disturbing but inconclusive. I refuse to believe that a man so astute at handling my clitoris with his tongue, could be responsible for such unspeakable crimes against humanity. You, a man who caressed my supple breasts with so much poetry in each touch, could never be responsible for the rumored extermination of an entire race.
I can't believe anything they say about you here because I love you. I cannot take being apart from you any longer. I met some soldiers last month and they offered me a voyage to France free of cost. I leave tomorrow and will arrive on the beaches of Normandy on June 6th. I will be in Berlin in no time. Wait for me my love, because God only knows I have waited for you.
Love and kisses,
Me.
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