Marianne stuffed the letter into her pocket. A few minutes prior, reading/rereading/consuming the four handwritten paragraphs, enamored, elated, she painstakingly folded the paper seven times so it would fit just...right. She checked her mug: oversized porcelain with a Unicorn being led by a piece of dental floss, and alas, she was out of coffee. At this interval, on most days, she would practice lines in front of the standing mirror in the foyer. Her roommate, unwittingly, through some osmosis of the performing arts had
also memorized Marianne's various monologues given the shoddy, no where near soundproof confines of the apartment. But this wasn't most days. And -- fighting off the urge to reread the letter
yet again, her concept of what
Most Days alluded to may have to be reassessed, or better yet, improved, fully realized.
A response had been attempted, cryogenically frozen on her computer screen -- she had abysmal handwriting -- but only one line composed, a single diner, cautiously sipping his Cote Rotie in an empty restaurant:
My Love,
How is Los Angeles treating you today?
Staring her in the face, taunting, demanding something far more emphatic. In the tenure of her acting career she'd spun yarns at auditions and improv shows of Dickens-like proportions stemming from a slew of nonsensical origin, but here, in the trenches, in the substrata she found herself at a loss, overcome. Out comes the letter, expertly unfolded, maternal, placed gently on the desk. She rummaged through the photos in her computer, finding an outdoor shot -- of nothing in particular -- of Silverlake, her favorite neighborhood in L.A. she'd visited within the last year, formatting it as the Wallpaper on her monitor. There -- ostentatious sunshine, staggered multi-green flora, houses on hills; the whole scenario looked warm and inviting. She smiled, her shoulders relaxed, releasing the tension for the first time all morning, unknowingly. Something was percolating. One fell swoop and she deletes her response, opens up a voice-program she often used to record herself performing monologues, rehearsing lines, a very useful tool, and, still smiling, but something was different, she opened up a new file. She picked up her office chair -- loose wheel in the back, so irritating, gave herself a little space to maneuver and hit RECORD. An exhalation:
Darling, Joeseph, I tried to write you and found something
obsolete, effete, my whole efforts enervating --
Her roommate, just arrived, unbeknownst to Marianne, compelled, eavesdrops behind her door.
I needed, no, I, something's changed -- and, please don't mistake me, it's beautiful -- I've allowed myself the chance to imagine my life, your life, Los Angeles, and I get these flourishes, sparks, intermittent pangs of something better and I find myself aroused, the chill up my spine letting me know I'm human, or rather I'm doing something right. I look at myself, what I'm doing, and you, baby you know, you get to a point and maybe I've taken this, or this place, this city, nearly as far as it's gonna go, you know? What I mean, and, well [laughing] after reading your letter like 25 times, is that I deserve this, I deserve you, I deserve to be happy and not something to be sent away for, part-time, on goddamn layaway -- I deserve the chance to create, I'm owed this opportunity for self-actualization and nothing will convince me otherwise--
The roommate's eyes widen, realizing she's holding her breath, nearly dropping her bag of groceries. She swallows slowly, methodically, listening:
And look: I'm on another monstrous tangent, my god, could you imagine if I'd actually written a letter? You'd have had to take a week away from work just to hear me say Thank You. Thank you for reminding me of my self-worth, something so dear to me, but we put things off, make reasons why we can't do things, get bogged down in pragmatics -- so absurd! But I'll see you soon, my resolve like totally refreshed, emboldened because I know the right answer. I know I can imagine a life with you, a reality yielding so many cherished memories, god I sound so fucking corny, but it's true. I envision even run-of-the-mill garden variety activities, shopping, going to the beach, making dinner at home, all this shit flooding, frying my circuits with these pangs of warmth and possibility and that yes, I am, doing something right.
Yours, Marianne.
She hits STOP, her heart racing, realizing she hadn't actually seen anything for the last three minutes, a blur, an impressionistic painting of her apartment orbiting her vision. As she placed a DVD inside her computer and hit BURN DISC a textured CRASH came from outside her room, the door swinging open.
