Park
"Park, wake up. You have mail."
You have mail.
What?
Eleanor.
Eleanor?
Park didn't want to get his hopes up, he had been getting his hopes up since the second he had gotten home after driving Eleanor to her uncle's. Eleanor. But Park had mail, and no matter how hard he tried, it was impossible for him not to. What if it was her? What if it wasn't? Jesus, he wanted it to be her so badly. Man up Park, Jesus. Park really did need to man up. If it wasn't for knowing Taekwondo Park could have been easily mistaken for a girl. He got out of bed (fucking waterbed) and went to get his mail.
"Welcome to St. Paul".
He started to cry. Crying might have been an understatement. Park was sobbing. It took him two hours to snap out of it and when he did, he grabbed a piece of a paper and a pen and wrote to Eleanor.
Eleanor, I love you too. Come see me. Please. Call me. Do you still remember my number? I knew I should have written it down. Dammit Eleanor, you better not have forgotten my number. I'm writing it here just in case you did. Call me.
Park
402-692-3342
He folded the piece of paper, slipped it into an envelope and realized he had no more stamps left.
Fuck.
Eleanor
Twelve days. Twelve fucking days. Park should have gotten her postcard by now. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Eleanor really needed to work on not swearing even if she only swore in her head and occasionally under her breath at school when those stupid girls would walk by her locker and snicker. She was definitely overreacting. If Park had gotten her postcard he would have sent her a letter back or something. Maybe lyrics to a song or a joke. Something. Anything was better than nothing. God Park, please send me something back.
