The Letters Not Shared
My Dearest Beatrice
Hello dear. Can I call you dear? Oh, I’m sorry beautiful, I forgot we were past that.
Dearest Beatrice, skin like silk, soft like cotton. I wish you were here to see the warm smile that just spread across my cheek as I travel down memory lane.
Do you remember how we met Beatrice? You should, because I will never forget.
I remember feeling so agitated from having to stand under the scorching sun— waiting for you.
I was itchy
I looked a mess from sweating profusely.
I had told you not to come when we spoke the previous night because I hadn't a dime on me to grace your arrival, yet stubbornly you insisted.
I had only a picture of you in my head when I went to bed that night. The first picture you sent to me when I met you in the WhatsApp group and we talked.
Yes! I still remember.
You had on a long brown skirt that hugged your knees and a black blouse to complement it. You also had a dark ribbon tied around your head. I remember, a huge bible was pressed firmly against your breast — your soft, round breast.
I fantasized the entire night, eager to meet you, longing to hold your hands finally and look into those beautiful brown eyes.
Yet here I was, 2:30 pm, panting from exhaustion and agitation — you were running late!
I didn't realize it then, but I was always going to be chasing you around like bees did pollen.
Finally, I saw you—a reflection of you.
I saw your curved waist.
My goodness, what a perfectly shaped woman you were! Brown-skinned, big waist, fat ass, and a gorgeous smile to complement all these.
As if on cue, you looked my way and exposed your shiny white teeth. Every trace of anger left with the next breeze that tugged at my clothes.
Beatrice, your smile made up for your late arrival. Just like it made up for everything else you did.
I walked towards you with sweat dripping down my face. I didn’t care about all that. I only wanted to get to you. You were simply magnificent, in a class all by yourself!
Although I could feel swift movements from the crowd of pedestrians walking through the distance between us, still, I saw no one but you. Everything else is a blur except for you. Damn the world for all I cared. You were all that mattered. You still are.
I got to you and gallantly bowed in a boyish prostate. “Your Royal highness,” I said.
You laughed and it sounded like magic if ever I was to hear one.
You immediately took a brief bow before resting my arms on your waist while you wrapped yours around my neck. I heard a whisper in my ears laced by hot breath, “I’m sorry for keeping you waiting.” Beatrice, these words danced in my head for many years. They still do.
I know you hate it when I talk about how we met, but you know me my dear – I like to ponder on the past, especially ones holding events that matter to me.
You must forgive me my love, because even after all these years; I still haven't figured out a way to get over you.
It has been 6 years, 4 months, and 12 days since you left me.
I can still remember that day as clear as the night sky. Even if memories would fail me, that scene will never leave my head.
I remember feeling so distraught when the woman I adored told me it was over.
“You aren't man enough to handle me,” you had said, shattering the empire I was building for us in my head.
What was it you said about my best friend then? Yes!!! “Take notes from Jimmy. He's the man you'll never be, on and off the sheets Evan.”
My heart shattered Beatrice.
It wasn't even that you had been having an affair with my best friend—I would have forgiven that.
My love, I would have forgiven anything if only you had turned back and not left me to dismay. “Say those words ‘I'm sorry’ once more baby,” I pleaded as my heart broke into a thousand pieces.
My body left a tremendous thud from the impact the fall caused. The floor was cold, no more than my heart felt. I grabbed at my chest as if to keep it from ripping out while I watched you walk out the door.
“Don't leave me Beatrice.
Don't leave me like this.
Not for Jimmy.
Not for anyone,” I begged, but sadly, you didn't stop.
You just didn't care.
It didn't matter to you—I was a 29-year-old man on the floor in tears, grabbing at his shirt.
The irony is, that was supposed to be the day Beatrice. I had a beautiful ring in my left pocket. “It was time,” I kept reminding myself a week earlier.
Although I got the ring from a pawnshop, it almost cost me all of my fortune. But you deserved the best.
It didn't matter how many times I rang your telephone after that, begging for you to come back. Of course it always went into voicemail.
It also didn't matter how often I showed up at your lawn or place of work — you weren't interested.
You didn't even blink when you filed a harassment complaint against me and I was given a restraining order.
You didn't care that I stayed approximately 500ft away from you wherever you went.
You never glanced my way on the days I'd scream your name from afar.
So what my love? Three years of a great romance between us suddenly went out the window while I became just another face in the crowd???
I've watched your movements.
Every graceful step you've taken, every word you've said on air.
Every exploit you've made, every height you've attained.
I've watched them all sitting on my cushion, hand on the remote, wondering if you'd ever say my name again in this lifetime.
I sit on that cushion every day watching for you.
The moment your name is called, my heart skips as I hold my breath and shut my eyes, praying to every God that you would say my name, even if it was only in a whisper.
You don't call it, you never do. You don't call Jimmy's too. Looks like he wasn't a keeper after all. The thought of this brings content to me.
Moments later, you get on the stage, grab the microphone and start singing, ever so melodious.
Every time, my world stops as I get drawn into an alternative reality (that) there was only you and I in that hall, and you were singing in my favor, reassuring me of your love for us.
My kids run around in laughter. I can't hear them, but I'm certain they are loud.
I only see the swiftness of everything else, even of my wife.
The rest of the world is a blur, like everything else was – the first day I met you, almost 10 years ago.
I can see the scornful look my wife gives me.
They think me stupid. A grown man who has detached himself from the world.
A grown man who has made no laughter. Even the sound of his voice, he has no clear recollection of.
With you Beatrice, I used to laugh so easily, so often. Now I'm just a shadow of myself.
Because it's you, my dear, you are the only one whose voice dictates my happiness.
I told no one of you Beatrice. I couldn't bear their judgment. If I told them, they would only strive to take your memories away from me.
My thoughts laugh at me Beatrice, they whisper I might as well love a dream.
So here I am, sitting on my desk, pen in hand, writing this sixth letter to you.
I just looked across the table and realized that my tea has gone cold; just like our love did. All that was left floating was this huge bump of condensed crap.
Today is your 29th birthday. The exact age I was when you left.
I remember all the promises I made to you on your twenty-third.
If only you would say my name once more my dear, I promise on this day that I would fulfill every vow these lips have ever said to you in commitment.
If only you would look at me again, I would fall flat at your feet, kissing the ground by which you were walking and licking the dust off your shoes.
Happy 29th, Beatrice; I still think of you!
Signed: Evan Morris, the man who is still crazy about you.
“Evan!” I heard and hurriedly turned toward my office door, anxiously.
I heaved a heavy and long sigh when I discovered it was my wife calling. Disappointment stole the color out of my face and rested there.
“I'll just clear the table and leave you to do your thing,” she said with a smile, but I could hear a trace of sadness behind her voice.
I pitied her.
What hell had she passed through and was willing to keep going through knowing my heart would never be hers?
It's easy to blame me for treasuring another, and by all means, you are right. I am the villain here because I have a responsibility now — my children, my family.
I can't say I truly love my kids. That's a painful thing to say. Trust me I know. But I can't help but think if they would still be the kids I'd have if I had gotten Beatrice that ring sooner.
Maybe time would heal my family and I while taking this hovering gloom away.
Maybe I'd be a shitty father and absent husband for the rest of my life, I can't tell. What I know and feel deep in my soul is that Beatrice was the one for me.
“Evan?” this time I almost fell off my chair in fright.
Apparently my wife had been calling me, but I was too deep into my thoughts. I didn't hear her and now she was in my face. Hers inches away from me. Even with how beautiful she looked, I had no urge to kiss her, so I turned away, pretending to re-adjust myself.
“I was asking if I should make another tea for you,” she said, standing upright. The sadness in her eyes was more visible now, that I thought she might break into tears any moment.
Still, I couldn't comfort her. I didn't know how.
“Are you okay?” I finally said, after struggling to arrange the words in my throat.
Her eyes widened. I didn't speak often, not to my kids, not at work. She put on a genuine smile, maybe thinking there was hope for us yet.
She beamed at me, and I couldn't help smiling back. I noticed this time that the traces of sadness were gone, or maybe just hidden.
“I'm fine now,” she replied in a hum, the words dancing on her lips.
I didn't blush. None of these intrigued me.
There was no melody in her voice. All her words were plain and dry.
I nodded briefly to her and turned back to my desk.
“The Voice is on again. I think today is the birthday of your favorite contestant,” she said. She turned to clear out my table,
I nodded.
She knew this was her cue to leave and she walked towards the door. She made a brief pause without turning to me, perhaps she said a silent prayer to God that one day she would have my heart.
The minute she shut the door, I got out the letter I'd just written and ripped it to shreds — just like I'd always done with the other letters.
I discarded the papers and made my way to the living room. I jabbed at the remote, sunk into my cushion—ready to watch Beatrice perform.
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See you by weekend!
I’m working on just the right story to take with you.
