Postcards from the End of the World

The city wasn’t such a big deal; in fact, he couldn’t see the appeal at all as he made his way towards the address written on his lower arm. He tried to quicken his pace to get there before the sweat dissolved the ink, but the heat was pressing down on him like a dead weight. The sunlight broke on every surface of glass, aiming at his eyes and nearly blinding him; the asphalt was melting slowly, he could feel his feet sinking with every step.

Reaching the shelter of the building wasn’t much of a relief either, as he was overwhelmed by the heavy smell of dust and slightly wet stone. He hesitated for a while in front of door number nineteen, trying to catch his breath, but the door swung open before he was ready to knock.

“Lorna,” he panted, like he hadn’t expected to actually see her. Small, bright circles started dancing in his eyes, so he started rubbing at them slowly. The girl squinted.

“James. What’s wrong with you?”

“So hot,” he muttered, and she stepped back to let him in.

“What took you so long? I’ve been worried, you were supposed to be here like hours ago, and your phone was turned off…”

“Oh, that.” He chuckled, dropping his backpack on the floor. “I smashed it. I mean, a bus did. I just threw it under the wheels…” His voice trailed off as he walked past her and into the kitchen. He kicked his shoes off and pressed his feet against the cold tiles. He sighed, relieved.

“Jimmy, you asshole,” she remarked, following him into the kitchen. She took a glass from the cupboard and filled it with water. He took it eagerly, drinking in large gulps until it was empty. She filled it again for him, and as he started sipping at it more patiently this time, she sat down and lit a cigarette. She pulled up her knees to her chest, her heels balancing on the side of the chair. He looked up at her, and she held his gaze.

“So? What are your plans?” she asked after long seconds of silence.

James shrugged.

“I’m gonna buy some postcards tomorrow.”

She cocked her head to the side and laughed.

“Really, though. What are you gonna do?”

He shrugged again and scratched his scalp under his wet, overgrown hair.

“I don’t know. I didn’t really think past the postcards.”

*

He was clutching a whole bunch of them as he entered the apartment the next day. After hours of walking in the bright sunlight, his vision left him for several moments in the darkness of the room, and he tried to compensate the lack of sight with raising his voice.

“Lorna. Where are you, Lorna?”

She didn’t bother answering as she was right under his nose, perched on a chair under the window, leafing through a weathered paperback.

“May I borrow a pen, please?” he attempted, more polite this time. He rubbed his eyes – his vision was coming back slowly – and smoothed his sweaty hair out of his tall forehead.

“Sure,” she muttered, completely immersed in her reading.

“And, um, where can I find one?”

“For fuck’s sake!” She slammed her book shut and looked up. “What do you need one for, anyway?”

“Postcards…” he said, raising his hand holding the stack of pictures.

“Oh, of course.” She raised an eyebrow. “In that case…” She stood up and walked over to the desk in the corner, sweeping away some sheets of paper with unfinished poems scribbled on them until she finally found a ball point pen, the only one still working, with bite marks on its cap. She held it between her fingers and waved it in his direction.

“Come here, let’s write them together,” she suggested with a cheeky smirk.

“Oh, I’d rather write them alone,” he said, raising his eyebrows in confusion.

“It’s my house, I make the rules,” she replied, dead serious, so he felt he had no choice but to obey her.

He joined her at the desk and spread the postcards on top of it. They were all oversaturated photos of the beach, some of them showing smiling tourists, others focused on the tall buildings stretching towards the sky in the background.

“Are you going to post all of them?” she asked.

“Not sure,” he said, his voice almost down to a whisper. He picked up the one in the middle, slightly bending the corner as he lifted it up and flipped it. He leaned against the table, his sweaty arms sticking against the cool surface. She mirrored her position, extending her long arms in front of her, her skin glaring white against the dark wood. It was a miracle that she managed to stay so pale in such a sunny place.

James took the cap off the pen with his teeth, keeping it between his lips as he started to scribble on the back of the postcards, his letters quite small and almost illegible.

Dear George, he wrote in the upper left corner, then hesitated.

“Who’s George?” she asked, quirking an eyebrow, and he couldn’t escape her scrutinizing stare.

“A friend of mine back home,” he said, and she picked up on the tone of uncertainty in his voice.

“Why are you writing to him?” she asked, sensing she could be about to hear something of interest.

“He’s the reason I left,” he replied matter-of-factly.

“Why? Got in trouble? Fist fight? Drugs?”

“Oh, no, no,” he said, rubbing his forehead and pushing his hair back. “I fell in love with him.”

She blinked twice, three times before answering.

“Oh. I see. Go on with your postcard.”

She didn’t budge, so he had to write the rest of it still followed by her gaze.

Dear George,

I hope your doing okay

“You spelled that wrong,” she chimed in, and he jerked his head up in surprise.

“What?”

“You’re. You used the wrong one.”

“Oh, that.” He sighed and corrected his mistake, the apostrophe hovering awkwardly above the word, the “e” not quite connected to the “r”. He went on, his hand getting shaky.

It’s really hot here in the city, you’d hate it.

He hesitated. Half of the white space was still stretching out blankly under the tip of the pen. Still, he decided to end it here.

Take care,
James.

“Is that all you’re going to write?” she questioned, her voice almost bewildered. “Look at how much space you’ve got left. Make it pretty, write something else.”

He obeyed.

P.S. If you happen to see my mom, tell her I’m gay.

Lorna’s laughter filled the tiny room, echoing from the empty walls.

“Ooh, doing it in style. I like that.”

James gave her a long look and, encouraged, he continued.

P.P.S Feel free to tell everyone.

He pushed himself up and stepped back, either to admire his masterpiece or to escape from it. He let out a heavy sigh and rubbed his eyes.

“Looks like I need to go out in the heat again.”

“Oh, no, no. I’ll post it for you tomorrow morning,” she offered quickly. “I need to go out and get my hair cut,” she explained, twirling a half pink, half blond lock of hair between her fingers.

He agreed, and he even let her get him drunk that night. And as he lay passed out on the floor, half naked under the wide open window, she took two postcards from the table, only one of them written on.

She carefully copied the address onto the empty one, and she started writing out her message in her big, loopy letters:

Dear George,

I’m Jimmy’s friend, you don’t know me, don’t worry. He’s staying at my place, and I think you should come pay him a visit. I mean, if someone loved me enough to send me postcards from the end of the world, I’d definitely go see them.

Love, Lorna

She paused to estimate the space left. Possibly just enough. She added her address as a P.S. and finally stuck a stamp onto her postcard, hoping he won’t notice its absence in the morning. Still, she would have to hide it for another day. He would probably catch on, he always did, he always noticed everything; so when she went out in the morning to send out his postcard, she bought enough food and alcohol to keep him occupied for the day, trying to ignore that it was the money for the month that just went out the window.

And with another excuse a day later, the second postcard was on its way, and even if he noticed, he didn’t say a word. He only got suspicious when she directed him towards the bus station on their evening walk for the millionth time just to watch the Greyhounds pull in.

“Are you expecting someone?” he asked one night, to which she shook her head and took him to meet her friends for some cheap beer and free cigarettes.

*

Slowly, he got used to the heat. He finally learned how to breathe in the hot air painlessly, and his heartbeat evened out, too. And then, one morning, the breath hitched in his throat, and his heart started pumping blood haphazardly, banging against his chest. He went down to collect Lorna’s mail, just to be nice, and this is how he found the envelope, the handwriting on it glaringly familiar. He turned it to see if it had the sender’s name on it, and sweat started running down his temple as George’s name stared into his face. He turned the envelope again, just to make sure, and yes, it was definitely addressed to Lorna.

“I hope to god you can explain this,” he panted, slamming down the envelope on the kitchen table. Short of breath from running up the stairs, he didn’t sound very menacing. Still, Lorna didn’t dare to laugh at him. She tried to keep her calm, to keep her voice low.

“I can. Just give it to me so I can read it.” She reached out for it, but Jimmy snatched it away in an instant.

“No!” he shouted, his voice gaining strength. “Why would he write you a letter? You sent him a postcard, didn’t you? You think I’m stupid, or I can’t count?”

“Calm down!” she snapped back. “Yes, I did send him a postcard, and really, what are you getting so worked up over? Let me read the letter and I’ll show it to you after that!”

He stepped back and extended his hand so the letter was halfway between them.

“Read it aloud.”

“Come on, Jimmy, I’ll show it to you later,” she attempted impatiently, but he just stood there, the will to live slowly fading from his face.

“Please,” he said, ready to hand her the envelope. “I just need to know.”

And she had no choice but to obey; if his heart broke right there, she had no idea what to do with it. She took the letter from his trembling hand, sat on the table with her back to the window, and tore the envelope open. It contained one single handwritten page, possibly torn out from a sketchbook, with faint marks of charcoal on it. She took a deep breath and started reading in a shaky voice.

Dear Lorna,

Thank you for your postcard. I have never received any before, and now I got two in just two days! It must be nice, living by the beach, though it baffles me why Jimmy chose to go there, of all places – he hates the heat. He must be a real joy to be around, all sweaty and grumpy! If he gets too much, please send him home. A lot of people miss him here, including me. And if he doesn’t want to come, I think I’ll accept your invitation and head over there. I haven’t been to the beach in years! By the way, you seem like a really nice person. I bet you’re taking good care of him. Take care of yourself, too, and please write soon!



She looked up at him to see his reaction, but she was quite startled by what she saw. He stood there leaning against the counter, with his face buried into his hands. As the silence registered in his mind, he raised his head slowly, revealing his flushed cheeks.

“Is that all?” he asked, his voice threatening to break. She glanced down at the paper and shook her head.

“A P.S?” he asked, and when she nodded, he urged her to go ahead.

P.S. I saw his mom a couple of times, but didn’t tell her anything. Tell him that he should do it himself. Maybe he should buy another postcard.

Jimmy tried to laugh, but it came out as more of a sob. Embarrassed, he hid his face behind his hands again, breathing heavily.

“Hey, there’s still more,” she said softly, and hoping that she still had his attention, she went on to read the very last line of the letter:

P.P.S. Not sure if I understood the things you wrote quite right, but if I did, please tell him I love him too.