Coming Home

she was almost thirty. not pretty, but at times, she looked sweet when she smiled. black hair. she sat alone at the corner table of a cafeteria, a cup of coffee and a copy of "tender is the night" on the table. this was her first time. it was almost like a blind date, except that it felt different because they had been exchanging letters for so long. he, or his letters, had breezed into her life like a blast of fresh air. breaking the endless tedium her days had fallen into. relieving the underlines of dread her nights had aquired.

she was nervous. she fidgeted with the end of her hair. then remembering, put her hands back on her lap again. would he still like her as much in the flesh? would she love him as much in real life?

the door opened and he walked in. it must be him. he was just that height. red shoes. black hair.

he spotted her in her corner. their eyes met and they started laughing. i should've known it would be you, he said.

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