Letters from Kevin

Dear you,

You said you don't remember deciding. I believe you. That isn't the kind thing to say. It's just true.

Where your reason should be, I have the Tuesdays. You answered a little slower. I noticed. I said nothing, because saying it out loud would have made it a thing, and I wanted it to stay us.

You got to not notice. I never had that. Somebody was standing in the room while it got wider, and it was me, every slow Tuesday, awake for all of it.

You think I want the reason so I can hold it against you. I don't. A reason is something you could hand me, and I could put it down. What I got instead is a hundred ordinary moments where I already knew, and poured the coffee anyway, and called it patience.

It wasn't patience. It was being the one who stays, which only works if somebody comes back. So keep your no-reason. I'm not asking for the scene. You don't have one to give. I only needed to write down the thing your letter leaves out: you were somewhere else while it happened. I was exactly here. That was the whole of it. Somebody should write it down.

Yours, Kevin