Dear Fox
I moved into your office today. Did you feel the ripple across the time-space continuum? Of course I came armed, carrying pine-scented air freshener in the impersonal box with my stationary and office mug, ready to dispel the lingering smell of you. Yet I hesitated, unwilling to lose the cologne and spearmint-flavoured TicTacs and faint cigarette smoke that recalled your face so vividly.
I miss you by day and long for you by night. It is a great relief to be able to speak of you, to say casually, "Oh, Fox arranged things this way". To call your memory to mind with the mention of your name, to hear others speak of you with the same reverence and worship and love I always had for you, the love that still burns with the flame of a thousand suns. Oh, how insipid and uninspired and unoriginal it sounds. But is true for me. Has been since I met you and will be until I die and my love for you dies with me. How trite to say, "Oh, I have never loved anyone the way I love you", yet how true. I have never looked at a man, knowing his flaws and faults better than my own, still loving him and accepting him and not wanting him to change. Until I met you, of course. Until I knocked on your office door, asked if you were the man whose name was printed on the door. Until you pierced my soul with your eyes.
You, for all your charm and charisma, can be a manipulative bastard. Could I trust you? Yes, to do what was in your best interest. Could I rely on you? Yes, to do what served you best. Could I help but love you? No, even though it was not in my best interest or served me best.
How bitter I sound. Perhaps I am. It is never easy to accept second place, to know what could have been but for another woman. Ah, another woman. A petite porcelain doll of a woman, a woman of ice and science when I know you need someone with passion and beauty. Someone to warm you, to make you laugh, to make your mind race with thoughts and words and images. Someone, yes, someone like me.
Are you happy? I don't mean that in the immediate sense of the word, in the I'm-not-bleeding-from-the-head-and-I-have-no-pending-court-dates-way. But do you feel a sense of purpose, a sense of bliss, a sense of destiny pulsing through you whenever you're awake? Do you exult silently in the breaking of every new dawn? Do you turn to the woman in your bed, celebrating her, waking her up from her sleep because you cannot bear to spend another minute without hearing her voice, without seeing her smile? Are you happy, Fox?
If you are, I suppose I should be happy for you. I should rejoice in your bliss, in your good fortune. And so I shall, no matter how difficult it may be for me, no matter how little satisfaction I may derive from your love of another woman. Yet I cannot help but wonder, wonder if you have managed to dispel those dark clouds that thundered across your face so often. Wonder if resolving Samantha's kidnapping has brought you the closure you needed. Wonder if you are happy and if you know that I can make you so.
Oh, I sound like any other lovesick teenager. Who would have expected it from me, who but you who knew me so well?
I know I will not hear from you, will have no reply to this letter as I do not intend to send it. (I am not that much like a lovesick teenager.) I will never know if you knew how great your forever with me would have been. But I will take comfort in seating myself in your chair, conducting my business at your desk, carrying on where you left off.
I love you, Fox.