She had developed a routine after the first holiday she had spent at school. She bought herself a cup of gourmet coffee, pulled out the typewriter she used for school assignments, and using the cheapest dime store paper and her own spool of ribbon (yes, she used the school's business typewriter for personal letters, but no one could accuse her of stealing paper or ink from the school) she would draft letters. The matter of posting the letters would be a problem best saved for another day, when she would determine how many stamps she could actually afford.
She found the act of writing the letters therapeutic; different somehow from keeping a journal or writing the things of her imagination. Perhaps it was the fact that she was writing to another person.
Her housemate's cat secretly adored her, and in these times, when most of her schoolmates were home with their families, she drew her substitutes close; her letters to compose, her housemate's cat, and her special gourmet coffee, purchased specially for her holidays spent alone.
She didn't have money like so many of her schoolmates. Her parents had died when she was young, leaving her to be raised by a kind neighbor and his wife out of charity. Mr. Lune had once been her father's friend, and she had no other living relatives. He ran a karate school out of his basement, and he paid her lodging, so long as she kept her grades good enough to continue to receive the scholarship that paid her tuition. He and his wife had urged her to continue her schooling, despite the fact that her parents hadn't left her much money when they died.
To prove to them that she took her studies very seriously, instead of going out, she stayed in, better to concentrate on her education. What money she did receive for odd jobs was saved for emergencies, or what she called her "quick-start" fund: money to be saved for the day she left to start her life.
She had just settled in to her routine once more; her coffee steamed lazily on her desk, her hands were clean after the struggle of loading her ribbon into the typewriter, and a lank gray-striped cat sidled up to her, intent on sitting on her lap for the next two weeks without interruption. She sorted the bills into piles based on when they had to be dealt with, and was surprised to see a brightly-colored envelope in the stack of mail. What suspiciously looked to be a Christmas card. Addressed to her.
The writing was narrow and slanted, un-joined and vaguely crooked. And the return address proved to be a pre-printed business label, indicating she had received this Christmas card from a school of karate in her hometown.
Mr. Lune, she realized upon pulling the letter out. She pulled a strand of her hair over her shoulder unthinkingly, threading her fingers through it as she picked the handwriting apart, frowning. It wasn't Mr. Lune. His fingers were so rheumatic he could barely hold a pen, let alone write with one. So this was…Mr. Lune's son.
Mina, the letter began, as though uncertain whether penning 'Dear' at the front was inappropriate. Thank you for your letters. They are warmly received.
She smiled as she read. He wrote like she did. Aware of his audience, but with a kind of affable self-deprecation, if such a thing were possible, evident in the words, like he was writing as much for his own enjoyment as for another person. As if he hoped to reread the card himself sometime and hoped to deride his own pleasure from it. She read avidly. Several times. Stroked the cat in her lap absently, chewing her hair now.
A Merry Christmas to you, Mina. Regards, Art.
She propped the cheery Christmas stationary upright, referencing it for her reply. She typed smartly, as she had been taught, making nary a mistake, aware that her cheap paper wouldn't withstand erasure, besides the fact that she didn't actually own a typewriter eraser, deeming it an unnecessary expense with regard to what worthier things her hard-earned money could buy instead. Like stamps.
Dear Art, she began, aware already of her cheek. Your letter was appreciatively received, although with admitted surprised delight.
She paused occasionally to sip at her quickly cooling drink, slipping easily into her routine now that she was writing again instead of reading. It was still odd to be addressing a letter as reference for drafting a return; but she wrote still for her own reasons. Catharsis still won out over propriety, and she found herself almost unwilling to read over what she'd written, afraid she would need to pen a second draft. In the end, she decided to just send what she had, though the decision's main factor was that she didn't have enough cheap paper to try a second time.
Then she broke her routine altogether, depositing a protesting cat on her bed and pulling on her coat and hat, hoping she could make the post office before closing. One of her gloves, to her dismay, had gotten a hole in the tip of her index finger. She put the pair on top of a pile of things she hadn't gotten around to mending yet, deciding to go without rather than endure the judgement from her landlady concerning her poorness.
It was a sturdy house, though definitely in mild disrepair. The curtains were currently open, to invite the illusion of warmth and light, though the weather had grown increasingly darker and gloomier. The shutters on the right of the front door hung crooked, and there was a crack in the cement in front of the door, hidden cleverly by a welcome mat. As they had also discovered, the house came by an annual silverfish infestation, though they were spared this in part because of the weather, and in part due to her housemate's cat, who devoured insects as readily as tuna.
One redeeming feature of the house was its proximity to the stop for the streetcar, which was desirable, as she received special reimbursement for taking public transit to and from school. The nearest post office was five stops away; three if she cut through the library. She pulled a dime from her purse for the fare, got three cents change, and rooted covertly through her coins to find another nickel for the return trip. The three pennies were for the stamp.
She scowled at finding only another moldy penny, wishing now that she'd worn her gloves, hole in the finger or no; it was getting cold, and she would have to walk home. She'd die before changing a whole dollar for six lousy cents.
She got off at the library stop, relishing the rush of warmth, when she entered the building, but remembering to hurry; by her watch the post office closed in ten minutes.
It was good, she decided, to augment her routine. This way, the reply would reach Art Lune before Christmas, and she could just write letters as pseudo-therapy again, waiting to post them—if ever—until she had the stamps.
Walking the three streetcar stops back to her house didn't take too long, either. She made it in twenty minutes, and suspected that, with better shoes, and no uphill gradient, she could easily shave five minutes from the time. Good to know for future reference, for when money was tight, maybe, or the weather was warmer.
The reply to her reply came quickly. Quicker than she had anticipated, even, with the postal service being overwhelmed by Christmas cards. The handwriting was the same. Two letters. Art Lune had officially entered 'pen pal' status. She told him such, as she immediately launched into drafting her reply: Does it count to draft pen pal letters to non-veterans? Can I write off the cost of postage as a charitable donation? These queries are halfway made in earnest, though with little hope of an affirmative acquiescence in either case: I consider it highly unlikely I will file taxes for this last year, thus making my inquiry null and void.
She swept the house, overturned the couch cushions, and searched the gutters as she walked to the post office, her unsent letter burning a hole in her pocket, though she was still short the cost of the postage stamp. A payphone rewarded her with a nickel, and she considered perhaps it was a sign that she was all right to being less-than-frugal in her new habits. She got home a little colder, a bit richer, and a lot happier that night. She took both letters from her desk and reread them, smiling and chewing on her hair.
The letters came quickly. And as money allowed for the continual need for stamps, she replied. She stopped buying fancy coffee, she stopped riding the streetcar, and she started eating more rice. But she did well in her classes, she got where she needed to be on her bicycle or walking, and rice was free at the canteen for students.
You know, I don't even rightly remember what you look like, she'd written as a revelation. It was nearly April, and she was mending the short-sleeved frocks from her mending pile, cognizant of the approaching spring when she got the reply. A photo accompanied the letter, and she blushed to realize how it might look—the war was over, but she still had an army beau—but she had to smile when she looked at the picture, because he looked a little like Mr. Lune. He had the old man's straight nose, and a hint of a future receding hairline.
She wouldn't have thought to describe him as strikingly handsome. She wouldn't have even thought to entertain the notion that she was in love with him, until she found herself considering dipping into her quick-start money to pose for a portrait to return to him.
And why shouldn't she be in love with him? They'd only been writing letters back and forth for nearly five months, usually bi-weekly, when she could get in her reply fast enough. He wrote letters like he meant what he said, never using crutches like inquiring after her health or commenting on the weather. His parents paid for her board. His father had been her father's best friend. He liked cats, and he knew karate. He liked that she was in school to learn a trade, and it didn't make him feel like she was strange.
He'd sent her a photo of himself, unafraid and not self-conscious, despite his missing arm, which had prevented him being drafted for the war. And she'd known. On some level, she'd remembered that Mr. Lune's son had lost his arm a few years back. But she hadn't made the connection.
She drafted a short response, packed a bag, and pulled out her quick-start jar from its hiding place under the loose floorboard by the window.
She broke her routine. Sent the letter as a telegram. Hopped on an eastbound train.
Art -(STOP)- Coming home for Easter -(STOP)- Train arrives Sat eve 18:45 -(STOP)- I am the girl in the green sundress who is madly in love with you -(STOP)- Love, Mina