Til Desk Do Us Part

Dear Grace,

I write to you today from the North side of my employers’ confines. I remember the glow in your eyes back when we first crossed paths, fierce, persuasive, yet somewhat blank. I remember your scent, piercing yet strikingly bland. I remember your locks, flowing yet remarkably short. I remember everything about that day, except what our first communication with words was.

I figure that first verbal contact went a little bit like this:
Me: Top of the morning, me lady.
You: How much does a Polar Bear weigh?
Me: Enough to break the ice.
Me: Did it hurt?
You: When I fell from heaven. No, it didn’t.
Me: Want to go procure a full meal of breakfast?
You: I thought you’d never ask.

Sometimes I think about you when I’m eating, because you eat a lot. Sometimes I think about you, when I’m walking, because you’ve been know to partake in that activity as well. Sometimes, I think about you when I’m doing arithmetic, because you’re good at math.

When do you think of me? Please tell me you think of me. I will anxiously await your reply. The days go by slowly, when I don’t have you to breathe for me. (Jordan Sparks, “No air” comes to mind).

Sincerely and longingly,
Brad