Dear Frankie...
Letter 1
Dear Frankie,
I don’t even know how to start this letter. I think it’s the hardest thing I’ve had to do so far. I guess things will get a lot harder later but so far this is the worse.
You probably don’t even remember me and to be honest with you I only remember you because I have to. To help you remember i figured I could tell you everything I remember. For starters, I can tell that I am that messy redheaded girl you met at a party a couple of months ago that kept making you laugh with witty comments about everyone’s outfits. Your friend with the long black hair kept trying to score with my blonde friend, and she kept trying to score with his brother who seemed completely unaware of what was happening.
Then we took a ride in your car. It was too loud inside and the party was lame. Your lips touched mine when you asked me if I wanted to leave. I did.
Outside you told me you liked tattoos and showed me your crazy halloween knuckles and that you played in band that was leaving on tour. I told you I was eighteen and I liked to photographs. I’m really sixteen, I’ll be seventeen next month.
We drove around for a while. You brought beers and parked by the park.
I’m not sure if this is true but when I try to remember this part what comes to my mind is that surreal red glow of your car. Everything in it was red, as if illuminated by a red bulb. What I do remember for sure is that we we’re fighting about the radio station and then Tom Waits came on. It was pure bliss. We ended in the backseat.
Clothes in a pile, breath condensing in windows. You don’t need the details.
Soon we woke and the car wouldn’t work. You said it wasn’t your car anyways and that you’d just leave it there and walk me home. I started walking, you started smoking. It was six in the morning. I had a huge headache and tried to smoke a cigarette you gave me but only achieved making myself dizzy and coughing like an old man. You decided it was too early for anything besides coffee so we sat in that creepy dinner on Continental Ave, right in front of the church.
You kept smoking and eyeing me worried, I think it was because suddenly I looked very young and hopeless and you felt sort of guilty. I drank a lot of coffee and bit my nails nervously, it was pretty clear this was hardly comfortable. We made small talk, you had just dropped out of college and you were in love with your band. I told you it was bollocks to name a band after a book you hadn’t read. You just shrugged and said it was a “cool name”. I told what the book was about, you promised to read it. It’s unlikely you ever did. I think we left without paying the check.
When you dropped me off on my doorstep, you said “Goodbye Tina” and kissed me softly on both cheeks. I thought it was a very Italian and smooth thing to do. I just smiled and conveniently forgot to tell you that my name was not Tina but Ava ,or Aoife as my dad calls me and that this wasn’t my doorstep.
Perhaps you are wondering why I am telling you all this. I’m sort of wondering too, I don’t even know where to send this letter.
The thing is Frankie, I’m really sixteen, born and raised in a very catholic family and have a strong believe everyone has a right to know who his parents are but mostly I’m pregnant. Shit happens.
I’m not asking anything from you. I’m really not. I figured I had to let you know because you have the right to know and well, I guess the baby has the right to know who his father is too. You don’t have to do anything. If you don’t want to hear form me again it’s alright. I can understand that. I just thought I’d let you know.
Ava.
I don’t even know how to start this letter. I think it’s the hardest thing I’ve had to do so far. I guess things will get a lot harder later but so far this is the worse.
You probably don’t even remember me and to be honest with you I only remember you because I have to. To help you remember i figured I could tell you everything I remember. For starters, I can tell that I am that messy redheaded girl you met at a party a couple of months ago that kept making you laugh with witty comments about everyone’s outfits. Your friend with the long black hair kept trying to score with my blonde friend, and she kept trying to score with his brother who seemed completely unaware of what was happening.
Then we took a ride in your car. It was too loud inside and the party was lame. Your lips touched mine when you asked me if I wanted to leave. I did.
Outside you told me you liked tattoos and showed me your crazy halloween knuckles and that you played in band that was leaving on tour. I told you I was eighteen and I liked to photographs. I’m really sixteen, I’ll be seventeen next month.
We drove around for a while. You brought beers and parked by the park.
I’m not sure if this is true but when I try to remember this part what comes to my mind is that surreal red glow of your car. Everything in it was red, as if illuminated by a red bulb. What I do remember for sure is that we we’re fighting about the radio station and then Tom Waits came on. It was pure bliss. We ended in the backseat.
Clothes in a pile, breath condensing in windows. You don’t need the details.
Soon we woke and the car wouldn’t work. You said it wasn’t your car anyways and that you’d just leave it there and walk me home. I started walking, you started smoking. It was six in the morning. I had a huge headache and tried to smoke a cigarette you gave me but only achieved making myself dizzy and coughing like an old man. You decided it was too early for anything besides coffee so we sat in that creepy dinner on Continental Ave, right in front of the church.
You kept smoking and eyeing me worried, I think it was because suddenly I looked very young and hopeless and you felt sort of guilty. I drank a lot of coffee and bit my nails nervously, it was pretty clear this was hardly comfortable. We made small talk, you had just dropped out of college and you were in love with your band. I told you it was bollocks to name a band after a book you hadn’t read. You just shrugged and said it was a “cool name”. I told what the book was about, you promised to read it. It’s unlikely you ever did. I think we left without paying the check.
When you dropped me off on my doorstep, you said “Goodbye Tina” and kissed me softly on both cheeks. I thought it was a very Italian and smooth thing to do. I just smiled and conveniently forgot to tell you that my name was not Tina but Ava ,or Aoife as my dad calls me and that this wasn’t my doorstep.
Perhaps you are wondering why I am telling you all this. I’m sort of wondering too, I don’t even know where to send this letter.
The thing is Frankie, I’m really sixteen, born and raised in a very catholic family and have a strong believe everyone has a right to know who his parents are but mostly I’m pregnant. Shit happens.
I’m not asking anything from you. I’m really not. I figured I had to let you know because you have the right to know and well, I guess the baby has the right to know who his father is too. You don’t have to do anything. If you don’t want to hear form me again it’s alright. I can understand that. I just thought I’d let you know.
Ava.