Dear B,

I’m sorry if this letter reaches you in a somewhat tatty and hopeless state, but as I write it, I’m wet, cold, and beaten from head to toe. Oh yes, my walk from work to the train station may only be five minutes, but in weather like this, it matters not. Winter is most certainly here, and it’s left me battered and bruised.

I may sound rather wimpish right now, but you know how I hate the wind and rain, and it doesn’t help that I sit next to a man twice the size of me. His arms and legs overspill his own chair, and mush into my sodden clothes. I feel everything: I feel my skin, and it’s soggy; I feel my hair smushed into my forehead, and it’s heavy; I feel the icy chill among my bones, and it aches.

I only hope you missed this downpour, although can you call it a downpour when it seems to last for three days? I swear, this weather is breaking my will, and I must apologise, because this is no doubt the second time you’ve heard my woes. I imagine the first thing I’ll do when I see you in a few hours time is whine and moan and groan about this damn weather.

Anyway, other than this disgusting Yorkshire sky, I’ve had a rather good day. As I arrived this morning, a magazine awaited me on my desk. Inside was the advert I designed a couple of months ago, which means I’m now a published artist… kind of… in a way… okay, maybe not. But again, you already know this, because said magazine is in my bag, and I’m showing it you the moment I see you.

I know this shouldn’t be a big moment, and if you tell Joey I’ll deny everything, but I feel a sense of achievement right now. I still don’t know how I feel about this job, and I haven’t quite come to terms with the title, Graphic Designer — after all, it doesn’t have the same romantic twist as writer, poet, painter, or starving artist — but still, a job is a job, and seeing my design in that trade magazine I hadn’t heard of until a few weeks ago, placed a smile on my face this morning.

It’s a shame the rain had to wash it away.

I suppose this is when I should wrap things up, because the page is rather soggy and about to fall apart. Anymore drips from my hair will make this completely unreadable, which would be a shame indeed, as I know you love to listen to me whine and moan and groan.

I love you, my sweet, and I’ll tell you so as soon as I see you — two hours and counting.

Here’s to an evening of music and lounging with the one I love. The rain shan’t dampen this day, I won’t allow it. I just hope you have a towel waiting for your soggy man.

From the boy you love,

Ausdylan Elvis Ashford x