ELEANOR
Don't do it, Eleanor. Not like this, not like this-then how? "That will be $2.50 for a postcard to Atlanta," Park would never do this, why should you?- Because I'm not Park. "To Omaha, sorry. Not Atlanta,"
Three words long.
Let me go.
Do it, Eleanor. You know this is the right thing.-and at what point was leaving behind someone who did nothing but love you the right thing?
At what point were goodbyes to someone who deserves nothing short of an "I love you," the right thing?
At what point is hurting him going to be right?
When leaving means setting him free.
When the goodbye opens up new greetings.
When the pain is...
I don't know.
"A dollar and 50, then." I rummage through my soiled backpack for the ziplock of cents I collected in my stay in Omaha. Luckily, Richie isn't exactly in the business of owning a wallet and being drunk almost every night brings him to weird motions that jingle cents out of the pocket of his ripped jeans.
Don't do it.
Do it.
Hand the money.
Pocket it and buy yourself a candy bar instead.
Eleanor, what?
"Miss?"
I leave the post office with a lighter ziplock and with a heavier heart.