Love Letter
Re: Love Letter
Frankie's been avoiding him.
Ever since he ran out of the bedroom and left him there, with that gorgeous smile plastered to his face.
Yes, Frankie ran. Like a filthy coward.
He wouldn't even show up to band practice, the one thing he looked forward to no matter what.
Two weeks away from Bob was testing the limits of his emotional strength.
No one to kiss. No one to hold. No one to call at three in the morning just to say a sleepy "I love you" because he almost forgot to say it.
Bob was his life, his world, his absolute everything, so why did Frankie place this huge distance between them?
That damn letter....
He couldn't bear the reaction.
What was behind that smile?
Pity? Mockery? Denial?
What would he say to Bob after all that?
Maybe Bob would move on, find a better guy who would respect him more?
These questions made Frankie's head spin as he walked through Jersey, with his hands stuffed deep into his pockets, hiding from the icy November air.
He tried looking at the sky, but each cloud reminded him of Bob.
That one looks like the lake where they first kissed.
Or maybe it's the tree where they first held hands.
He looked at the ground and saw weeds poking through the sidewalk.
The ground was crumbling...
One more crack, and maybe it would fall apart.
'I'm such an idiot,' he repeated in his head, struggling to divert his attention. He went into a local candy store to get some gummy worms, skittles, chocolate... any form of sugar, really. It was his drug.
A group of kids, maybe twelve or thirteen years old, hands full of candy bags, crowded around him, most of them reaching (even exceeding) his height. They smiled at him, a familiarity, greeting their neighborhood celebrity. They waved as they left, and he absently waved back as the doorbell jingled.
Frankie smiled, but he was empty. He couldn't feel the regular excitement anymore. It was all so bitter to him now.... Now that he had stupidly driven Bob away.
He made his way over to the counter and opened the lid to the skittles, but something stopped him from digging the plastic shovel into the sea of rainbows. A thick piece of paper was floating on top, and it was addressed to him....
With unsupressed fervor, he grabbed the paper and unfolded it. Bob's handwriting. It made Frankie's stomach flip. He shoved it into his pocket and started for the door.
The clerk looked up angrily, and Frankie got the message. "I'm not stealing candy! For Christ's sakes, man." He shoved the door open and left.
He wanted to let the anticipation build. If the letter contained something horrible, he didn't want to read it until he was safely within the confines of his apartment.
On the other hand...
If it was something good, he couldn't wait to see it.
His fingers shook from both his nervousness and the freezing air. Those fingerless gloves were amazing indoors, but not so great in the New Jersey winter. It seemed foolish to walk all the way home and risk damage to his fingers. After all, what kind of guitar player would he be if he couldn't use his fingers?
The bus pulled up at the stop and Frankie followed a group of people through the dirty glass door, slipping the change into the collector. The paper pressed into his thigh as he sat, next to the tiny bus heater blowing out warmth, and he couldn't wait another second. He pulled it out of his pocket and carefully unraveled it, like a sacred document, forcing his eyes to stay still long enough to make sense of the blue ink scribbled on the page.
My Frankie,
I've called your phone 34 times, left 17 messages, been to your apartment 8 times, and still no answer.
Band practice sucks without you. It's been two weeks since I've talked to you....
Stop avoiding me! Yes, I hid this in the skittles. I knew you'd go for some skittles right about now. God, Frank. You're impossible.
What did I do? Why are you ignoring me?
It is because of that letter?
Come on, Frankie, it's okay.
Talk to me?
Much Love,
Bob
Frankie read the letter over again. His hands shook more, and this time he knew cold air had nothing to do with it.
When he got home, he realized the door was open. He knew Bob was there....
With a deep breath, he ventured into the living room, sat on Bob's lap, and held him close.
Bob kissed Frankie's forehead and cleared his throat.
"I'm so glad to see you baby. Now... about that letter...."
Ever since he ran out of the bedroom and left him there, with that gorgeous smile plastered to his face.
Yes, Frankie ran. Like a filthy coward.
He wouldn't even show up to band practice, the one thing he looked forward to no matter what.
Two weeks away from Bob was testing the limits of his emotional strength.
No one to kiss. No one to hold. No one to call at three in the morning just to say a sleepy "I love you" because he almost forgot to say it.
Bob was his life, his world, his absolute everything, so why did Frankie place this huge distance between them?
That damn letter....
He couldn't bear the reaction.
What was behind that smile?
Pity? Mockery? Denial?
What would he say to Bob after all that?
Maybe Bob would move on, find a better guy who would respect him more?
These questions made Frankie's head spin as he walked through Jersey, with his hands stuffed deep into his pockets, hiding from the icy November air.
He tried looking at the sky, but each cloud reminded him of Bob.
That one looks like the lake where they first kissed.
Or maybe it's the tree where they first held hands.
He looked at the ground and saw weeds poking through the sidewalk.
The ground was crumbling...
One more crack, and maybe it would fall apart.
'I'm such an idiot,' he repeated in his head, struggling to divert his attention. He went into a local candy store to get some gummy worms, skittles, chocolate... any form of sugar, really. It was his drug.
A group of kids, maybe twelve or thirteen years old, hands full of candy bags, crowded around him, most of them reaching (even exceeding) his height. They smiled at him, a familiarity, greeting their neighborhood celebrity. They waved as they left, and he absently waved back as the doorbell jingled.
Frankie smiled, but he was empty. He couldn't feel the regular excitement anymore. It was all so bitter to him now.... Now that he had stupidly driven Bob away.
He made his way over to the counter and opened the lid to the skittles, but something stopped him from digging the plastic shovel into the sea of rainbows. A thick piece of paper was floating on top, and it was addressed to him....
With unsupressed fervor, he grabbed the paper and unfolded it. Bob's handwriting. It made Frankie's stomach flip. He shoved it into his pocket and started for the door.
The clerk looked up angrily, and Frankie got the message. "I'm not stealing candy! For Christ's sakes, man." He shoved the door open and left.
He wanted to let the anticipation build. If the letter contained something horrible, he didn't want to read it until he was safely within the confines of his apartment.
On the other hand...
If it was something good, he couldn't wait to see it.
His fingers shook from both his nervousness and the freezing air. Those fingerless gloves were amazing indoors, but not so great in the New Jersey winter. It seemed foolish to walk all the way home and risk damage to his fingers. After all, what kind of guitar player would he be if he couldn't use his fingers?
The bus pulled up at the stop and Frankie followed a group of people through the dirty glass door, slipping the change into the collector. The paper pressed into his thigh as he sat, next to the tiny bus heater blowing out warmth, and he couldn't wait another second. He pulled it out of his pocket and carefully unraveled it, like a sacred document, forcing his eyes to stay still long enough to make sense of the blue ink scribbled on the page.
My Frankie,
I've called your phone 34 times, left 17 messages, been to your apartment 8 times, and still no answer.
Band practice sucks without you. It's been two weeks since I've talked to you....
Stop avoiding me! Yes, I hid this in the skittles. I knew you'd go for some skittles right about now. God, Frank. You're impossible.
What did I do? Why are you ignoring me?
It is because of that letter?
Come on, Frankie, it's okay.
Talk to me?
Much Love,
Bob
Frankie read the letter over again. His hands shook more, and this time he knew cold air had nothing to do with it.
When he got home, he realized the door was open. He knew Bob was there....
With a deep breath, he ventured into the living room, sat on Bob's lap, and held him close.
Bob kissed Frankie's forehead and cleared his throat.
"I'm so glad to see you baby. Now... about that letter...."