Dear Lindsay,

First of all, I totally accept your 'constructive criticism'.

However, when at the end you mentioned:

"... They did bug me and they might bug a few others who won't hesitate to flame you for a few small inaccuracies."

It made me wonder whether it was just plain constructive criticism or some kind of dis. But don't worry, I don't mind people saying bad stuff about me and the stuff I do because, that's life.

So, were you correcting me to help me write a better story? Or were you just dissing me? I'd like to know because your review was quite unclear.

So, sorry, I guess for not researching properly. I know how you feel and I, too was offended when the movie made a zillion mistakes.

-Yeah, the dialogue was a bit too modern, I admit. I guess you can blame it on the songs that I play while writing. (Can I help it if my band keeps on giving me new songs to listen to and learn?) I have a hard time thinking straight (as you can see)

-I read in a history book about Greece that his other name was Alexander.

-Helen was the daughter of the king of Sparta making her a princess. And, due to a book I read, she was called a Spartan princess until the day she married Menelaus. Her father (the king of Sparta) handed the kingdom over to Menelaus and so she became Queen.

I guess I should be grateful that you didn't flame me while others will. Thanks for the warning.

I am so sorry I bugged you.

Basically, what I'm trying to say here is, I don't know how to classify your review.

Ciao and arigatou.

-Unreal reality 56

P.S. I just read my whole letter and I realized that you might take some parts as a hint of sarcasm. There was no sarcasm in this letter.

We sat together one night.

We were by my olive tree, Paris and I. He sat down beside me started playing on his flute. I lay down on the grass, closed my eyes and listened.

The tune was soft, lonely, and haunting. Then, the music stopped and I felt his lips warm against mine. He had placed a light kiss on my mouth, and then on my forehead.

He started tracing his fingers teasingly on my forehead.

"Don't do that."

I said. I didn't like the ticklish feeling it gave me. He just laughed. I opened my eyes and sat right back up to face him.

He placed his fingers on my forehead and began tracing again. I swatted him off.

"I told you to stop." I told him seriously. He laughed again.

I turned away from him and it was silent for a moment. Then, I felt his arms encircling me and he brought me into an embrace. He was leaning against the Olive tree and he brought me to lean against him.

We stayed silent for a few moments . . .sighing from time to time.

"Are you happy?" I asked him.

"Are you, Ara?" he asked me.

There are so many nights when I am all alone in Cyril's bed and I wonder what it would be like. I would imagine Paris and I married and sleeping on the same bed on nights such as these. Would I have that feeling in my gut? That feeling of jealousy and uncertainty? Would my dreams be haunted of his never-ending love for Helen?

When he plays with my children will I see that look in his eyes? A look that tells me this should've all happened with another woman?

"Yes, I'm happy." Is what I hear myself say.

That night I tried to sleep again. He crept into the room and lay under the covers with me.

We kissed passionately under the blankets and his hands were going up and down my sides teasingly trying to undress me. Then I playfully pushed him away.

"You can't be here. My father will kill you!" I whisper to him warningly.

"Then let him kill me." He whispers back and then we fall into a fit of whispery laughter. Then he starts to kiss me all over again but this time his kisses daringly go below my face.

"Make love to me." He whispers and then buries his face into my neck. With every strength that I have I pushed him away for real.

"No." I say. I pull of the covers try to push him off the bed as quietly as possible.

"Why not?" he asks.

"That's self-explanatory!" I tell him. He can get annoying.

"Fine. Be that way." He feigns anger and leaves. I can hear his whispered laughs.

I get under my covers and laugh too.Then my laughter stops and I am brought into a state of half-sleep.

It suddenly dawns on me that he and I will never make love. Not real love because I know in my heart that he does not love me.