The Love Letters: A Novella (11 page)

February 2, 2003

Nat,

Do you realize what your last letter has done to me? All I have to do is glance at the envelope and I ejaculate. But that’s the point, huh?

Story . . .

According to a mangy goat, the mountains of Tora Bora are cursed with another six weeks of winter. Respecting Afghani folklore, Staunch, Perkins, Floyd and I trailed the goat during our morning shift. Twelve kilometers due south, Gumby took a dump with his body facing away from the barren poppy field – which is obviously the same thing as Staten Island Chuck seeing his shadow.

Bad news: An Army squad stationed in Kandahar received a shipment of Adderall instead of Atenolol. Good news: I’m returning to Camp Hammond in a few weeks to update the Pharmacy Database. The length of my assignment has not been confirmed, but holy shit, I’ll take whatever I can get. It’s a major morale booster to have a few days/weeks when air smells like air, food tastes like food, and whacking off feels private. I’m so sick of everything tasting and smelling like dirty sand. My toothbrush tastes like dirt. My cot is full of sand. And yesterday, I noticed tan lines forming around my goggles. How did I get tan lines from my patrol goggles when my shifts are usually at night? LAYERS OF FUCKING SAND.

Changing the subject.

Natalie-body-part-of-the-day!! Your eyes.

Most nights I fall asleep trying to think of the exact color of your eyes. Blue seems too obvious, and green would be a lie. Comparing the color to the ocean would be a disservice, because let’s face it, the Atlantic Ocean is nasty.

Is blue a sad color? Not at all. Blue is a primary color, confident and dominant. Marines wear blue. Democrats like blue. Weezer has a blue album. Elvis had some blue shoes. Tiffany has a trademarked shade of blue.

But the color of your eyes deserve more than just a four-letter word. Hey Parker, what color are Natalie’s eyes?

Liberation.

The color – a vibrant crystal guiding the weariest wanderer home. The shade – a playful distraction in times of melancholy. The hue – serenity when the world unravels. The tint – loyalty, vitality, sensuality, and eternity.

The color is LIBERATION.

The day will come when the freedom leads me home. But until that day, I vow to put all my energy into memorizing the color of your eyes.

Je t’adore, ma femme.

~Zach

February 3, 2003

Zacharie,

Addressing your envelopes is a royal pain in my ass. Triple vowels and double consonants should never be partnered, and yet they dance around on the paper, mocking my horrible handwriting and ridiculing my deficiency in spelling. I had a pen pal when I was twelve, Maria Soto Marin from the jungles of Costa Rica, and even she had a shorter address than you!

As I was taking a break from addressing your letter in fear of carpal tunnel syndrome, I had a crazy idea that you need to suggest to the military postal system.  Pictographs! For example, Lt. Zacharie Parker blah, blah, blah, Kabul, Afghanistan, could be something simple like a tic-tac-toe board or a unicorn. I’m not certain of the actual process, but it seems that pictures could be a universal language, albeit an uncrackable code in case it gets in the hands of the Taliban. If you were Taliban, would you open a letter with a unicorn? Seriously, it’s brilliant.

Okay, continuing the Angie saga: Two nights ago, she knocked on my door wearing a very leathery, pleathery dress and Frankenstein shoes (like Docs with heels.) At first I thought it was another example of her atrocious fashion sense, but then I noticed her face. She had a pink blotch across her cheek and her eyes were red. She started crying in the middle of the hall, so I pulled her inside the apartment and gave her a hug. After making some tea and getting her a cold rag for her cheek, she started talking.

ARE YOU SITTING DOWN FOR THIS?

Angie is part of some sexual fetish circle that partakes in public shaming! Jesus Murphy! Angie. The dork that lives next door and makes brownies at least once a week.

From what I could gather through her blubbering, she’d been at a kinky party and then after, her “date” got very physical with her. I didn’t think it was my place to give advice, but I reminded her that her body belonged to her, and she could have whatever limits she wanted. And then we watched Caddyshack and ate Rocky Road ice cream. It was fun in a strange way, and maybe we could be girlfriends, but I’m counting down the days until Chloe moves in. I told you she’s moving here, right?!

I took the bedroom measurements and the space can definitely fit two twin beds. Mom brought me shopping in Greenwich and offered to buy Chloe a matching bed we found in a shop – you know the one, Hoity Toity, Nickle and Dime. The owner, Mrs. Patterson, asked about you. Apparently you took piano lessons from her when you were kid, and apparently, she thought you had raw talent. Mrs. Patterson had wonderful things to say about Claire, and she wanted you to know that you are loved and missed. God, that town loves you.

Which brings me to thing I love about you . . .

Zach-body-part-of-the-day!

Your balls.

Not only are they perfectly proportionate to your giant “heart” but they also inspire me. You take bad situations and do what’s right, even if it means sacrificing a life of your own. Most men are cowards, and only pretend to have a set of balls like you. You’re strong when I’m weak and determined when I’m uncertain. Your balls defend my honor because they have no fear. And quite frankly, your balls fit nicely in my mouth.

Come home to me.

~Nat

PS If you’re the FUCKING Taliban reading this private letter, FUCK OFF.

PPS I can’t get my film developed at CVS on Worth Street anymore. I’ve been flagged for pornography.

February 6, 2003

Temptress,

I’ve had the worst craving for Hot Pockets. Did you have them in Canada? It’s a flaky, scalds the roof of your mouth, cheesy, over-processed, microwavable, unhealthy snack intended for the laziest of slobs. Oddly, Hot Pockets have been in my dreams for the past week. Don’t worry, you’re there too. Naked – with a chicken & broccoli Hot Pocket in your hand. Sometimes the Hot Pockets have cartoon lips and googly eyes as they dance and sing to the commercial jingle.

In last night’s dream, I was eating you out and the Hot Pocket got jealous. The thing actually cried and ran away – vowing to never let me enjoy its saturated fats ever again. Am I delirious? Or hungry?

You’ll be happy to know I gained another three pounds of lean muscle. At this rate, I should be the Incredible Hulk in nine months. In fact, I’m going to suggest I be considered for Mr. July in the Marine Corps charity calendar. I’m too sexy for the cold months.

I got a letter from Chloe yesterday. She mentioned she was in Winnipeg and was ending her festival tour soon to come live with you. I really like Chloe – she’s so bohemian. Make sure you take her to Dunbar’s in the Village for open-mic night.

Roll out the spinning wheel, it’s time for everyone’s favorite game . . . Nat-body-part-of-the-day!

YOUR BREASTS

Forgive me for being crude, but those pictures you sent from NYE make me incredibly horny. So in effort to be a classy gent, I offer a poem of romantic declaration.

Ode to Natalie’s Boobs

Breasts so full and round,

Bouncing up top,

When I go down.

Nipples hard and pink,

Feather clamps on,

For extra kink.

Tits of perfection,

Teasing the tip,

Of my erection.

Fuck. I miss you.

Zach

February 9, 2003

Z,

You made me promise that I would never keep the truth from you, even if it’s painful. Truth: today was a bad day. Everything was wrong. And more than I ever, I wanted you here.

I hate days like this – feeling jealous that you chose Afghanistan over me. And then knowing that you won’t get this letter until next week is the fucking shit fucker’s cherry on the agony cake. Why? Why, why, why? FUCK! We can’t even fight like normal couples.

So I was feeling pathetic and lonely and then the worst thing imaginable happened.

I was asked out on a date. And the shittiest part? He’s a decent guy. We have tons in common. Like our affection for Survivor, breakfast for dinner, and craft beer. And guess what else? Since I have no plans this weekend or any other weekend for all of eternity, I accepted. And by the time you get this letter, I will have had dinner with another man. Possibly sex.

But it’s your fault as much as my own. Pick me, Zach. Come home to me.

Love,

The prisoner of your absence.

February 9, 2003

Sugartits,

It looks like I’ll be returning to Camp Hammond next week. I don’t have all the details, but I promise to email you once I get there.

How do you feel about Hawaii? Believe it or not, there’s a Combined Forces base in Honolulu. With my specialty in pharmaceuticals and undeniable charm, I will most definitely be offered the assignment after my Afghani tour. Just think of it, Nat! The beach, the perfect weather, and a tropical bungalow with a lanai – all for us, as long as you want.

If I close my eyes tight enough, I can see our future – you in a blue bikini, chopping fresh fruit to be served with our sunset cocktails. Following our cocktails in our favorite spot, we’ll take a therapeutic and sensual swim in the ocean. After our swim, I’ll carry you back to our bungalow and make love to you under the stars – devouring your salty flesh until you orgasm.

While I’m at my 9-5 job, you can shop! Clothes, shoes, jewelry, island furniture, tropical fish for our huge tank, sushi books for our private chef, ALL OF IT.  I will insist that you visit a spa at least once a week. I will also demand that you learn how to surf or at least paddle board.

And when the time is right, our little island babies will toddle around the beach saying “dude” and “bra” while we cuddle in a hammock and thank God for our luck.

I know you love NYC, but this could be our chance at paradise – far removed from the snow and the constant battles of sarcasm. Think about it, ma femme.

Natalie-body-part-of-the-day.

Your lips.

Luscious, inviting, billowy puffs of pink cotton candy, your lips are my sexual haven – demanding to be sucked and begging to be licked. When my mouth grazes your velvety sanctuary, you flinch beneath the pressure of my tongue. The moans and whimpers that escape your mouth are almost as good as the taste of your lips. Almost.