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As promised, here's that story I wrote. It's an attempt to write in an early 20th century experimetnal style. And please, please, don't think that this story has anything to do with my relationship with Oxbridge. It's more about cultural expectancies. The boy is, and remains, a total gallant cuddlewumpus. With no further ado, then:


A LOVE LETTER
by V. Wolfe

Do you remember? I do. When I cast my memories as far as they can go, I am filled with vague passions. I remember a confused tangle of loud cries, adrenaline fear, running, and an overpowering scent of need. There was only honesty then. There was no pretense of caring. All we had was instinct and reaction. Perhaps we were better off then than we are now. But that’s all as never mind. That life is long gone.

My first real memory is still filled with smell. I don’t think we’d left its importance behind just yet. Smokey bear-fat scents surrounded me, but your scent cut through above all of them. I needed you, I suppose even more than food. I can see your face in my memory, half lit by poorly tended fires, streaked with dirt and sweat. Did you say something to me? I don’t think we talked much, back then. That may have been for the best.

For all the vermin and filth, I found you attractive enough. And, no doubt, you found me so, as well. I remember you grasping my twisted hair and pulling me to you as we stood there at the border of the warmth, staring at the everlasting snows without. Did I love you? I had loved you, as best as we could back then. I cherished the winter ache of the bone you once broke. It meant you cared. Or so I thought.

I remember crawling to the cold air, weak from morning vomit, looking for you. The tracks in the snow were disappearing, but I followed them. The others sympathetically dragged me back. I cried. I may have cared. But you hadn’t lied. You hadn’t said anything. You had just left, in search of plump game. Or so the others said. My mind hurled accusations, and I knew what I was compared with that wide hipped carving you’d fondle in the dark. But they were right, in a way. You were seeking better game, leaving me to age to pitiable respectability, the love-tapped break hurting more each year.

Years pass in my mind, and the warmth of the world returns. A later image is clear in my mind. I stood on a cliff, chiton flapping in the breeze as I looked across the wine dark waters, wondering what purpose your shield would find. The vomits had passed long ago, leaving me with a squalling memory of you. For some reason, I thought this would please you.

The sails came and went across the blue, and I waited. You’d never said you’d return. Did you speak of duty? I’m not sure that was an idea then. It wasn’t one I shared. But I played my part and wept as you left; you played yours, modeling yourself on a character from a painted urn.

I did as expected and became the watcher on the cliff. Despite your silence, I believed the unspoken. I believed in your return until a hand grasped my shoulder and I saw it was not you. A scraggle-bearded face stared down at me, barking rough concern, telling me what I would have known if I had let myself. Another part was played, and he left me to wander towards the sea, falling inevitably onto the sea foam below.

But to be fair, you’d never said anything. I had learned to lie to myself.

Things stayed like that for so long. But I think I eventually demanded more from you, for which I offer no apologies. Oiled limbs and hot breath can only excuse actions for so long. I wanted words. And, however reluctantly, you complied.

I can see you below me, as I perched on the stairs, your perfumed locks combed so neatly, your chansons sung so sweetly, your lute played so well. Were you a gifted musician? I can’t remember, so it must not have been important. But you were attending to me. I may have believed that I had control. And there, at that moment, you said you loved me.

Such words were enough to ensure a quickening in my throat’s veins, followed by embraces and another quickening later. There was a consecration, of course, but I felt consecrated largely by your words. You laid them upon me nightly. And I believed them with equal regularity. Despite the years, I was still young in many ways.

But then your words changed, if not in content, then in emphasis. Love became less what you had given me (and I fancied I gave you), but an ideal. I never did care for ideals. Ideals wouldn’t hold me in the cold, drafty dark as I swelled and grew more helpless with each day. And, perhaps, grew less interesting? Was I once the unobtainable? Once taken, did my value diminish? But you said you loved me, however quickly your face turned from mine after the words were done.

You claimed you could hold multiple ideals. This was a new concept, and one you never spoke of when your fingers caressed sheep gut strings. But the lute gathered dust, and your words changed to encompass duty. Duty, it seemed, didn’t mean love. It didn’t mean anything to me. I know now what I suspected then. It was all a lie.

I remember looking out the tower window, not crying. The lie was sufficient. It freed me to form my own lies. We never saw each other again. I don’t think either of us cared.

So things went, for the longest time. We’d reached our equilibrium, our truce. We’d found a way to accommodate our need for each other, and our mutual ennui. We’d say the things that needed saying, never meaning them, never holding to them past the moment when the need stopped. And we’d move on. I was a princess; I was a shepherdess; I was a daughter; I was a mother. But they were all lies for you, because you needed them. I felt no guilt, for I needed what lies you gave me.

When did you stop? The exact circumstances are foggy. Was it my fault? I may have thought I wanted honesty. I may have wondered why I was left so often with nothing more than your replacements for company. I think that was it. With time on my hands, I began to believe that I wanted you near, and I wanted more words than you had time to give.

So you spoke of duty, with increased emphasis. You spoke of the Common Ground, you spoke of the Bastille, you spoke of the Union, you believed in the Social Order, but you equally believed in the Rights of Man. I didn’t care. By then, I knew a lie when spoken, and I would have nothing of it. I wanted some control.

And there, on a speakeasy floor, the smell of hair oil, cheap gin and smoke curling about me, I tried to change things. I strode across the room, my hair cropped and my breasts bound, and demanded honesty. The room didn’t stop its noise and movement for a moment, but you did. You tried your best to talk to me about spheres and roles. But I knew that day had passed. Your lies had no more use for me. You had ceased to try to make them plausible. I pressed your hand to my belly and demanded accountability.

I have no idea why I thought any of that would work. It frightened you. I should have remembered how easily frightened you are. Did you speak of love, before you went? No matter, you went. You were lost to me in a haze of bloodshed and death camps, the air of the world filling with smoke and little love. Not even pretend love. Just honesty. And honesty is a terrible thing, isn’t it? I should have known better.

We made it through, you and I, but we didn’t do it together. Certainly, you tried to make amends. I remember a pressed kiss for the public on the ship docks, at the train station, later on at the airport. It was an attempt, I’ll give you that. But mostly, when you returned, you were honest. You told me what you expected of me, outlining those spheres you spoke of once, before everything had gone so wrong.

Why relate our quarrels? Honesty forced us to speak to each other as we had never spoken before. And I realized that I preferred lute-strung lies of love to your fear-borne hatred. But I could no longer rely on you for those lies.

So, today I find myself racing the roads, plastic embedded in my ear with your voice pouring into my head. I tell you not to worry. I remind you about duty. My duty. And it’ll will all work out, believe me on this, dear sweet Man. We can trust each other now, in this day and age. And I’ll be back soon.

After all, I love you.