Dear M.,

Truth be told, I had already started writing this in my mind, behind closed lids as I struggled to fall asleep, last night. I told myself to just shut up and save the sentimental word vomit for morning (which is where I am now). I kept twitching as I tried to fall asleep. People do that when they are tired. I’ve been sleeping an average of 4 hours every 24. Anyway, I’ve fixed that this morning with a much needed nap.

“Just don’t smile at me, please,” Zooey said evenly, and walked out of the vicinity. “Seymour was always doing that to me. This goddamn house is full of lousy smilers.”

Ha. I trust you enough to feel like whatever goes through your mind as you read that excerpt will reflect what I think as well. Perhaps it is arrogance to feel so, but I do. I honestly do. I’m still reading it. Relishing it in fact. I stop when I’m tired of it so as not to read carelessly.

Here comes the sentimental tripe… You smile a lot. When you first met F. I will describe it to you, my favourite smile of yours (smiles varies, people generally have a repertoire of smiles); this smile usually comes when I’m talking. When I’m saying something or the other and you’re listening with a benevolence only you could muster for my mindless garble. You would be quiet and you would meet my eyes for a second and then lower them to the ground, with this smile still intact. In that second, a knowing look glints in your eyes. Yet in saying nothing and simply smiling, therein lies your enigma. I would frown (in my mind if not actually) and wonder. It’s an endearing albeit infuriating sort of smile. I generally chalk it down to “hinting at sadness” but you could be ridiculing me for all I know. Not that I think you do.

I’m actually working myself up to write something more substantial in this ‘letter’ but alas I need to go pick my brother up from school. A sketch of your smile, in words, unbidden sentimentality and my standard brand of foolish feigned omniscience.

I’ve to go now.

Yours,
     P.