The Record of My Heart (Words #3.5) (8 page)

Hello, my love,

Before I say anything else, I have to apologize again, Aubrey. I’m sorry for abandoning you on Friday. For not telling you about my anxiety weeks ago. For turning to my mother in the office on Friday instead of reaching out to you. For our lost weekend and all the fun we could have had. For the promises you’ve had to make to my father. For my past, and for all the compromises my baggage is foisting upon you—upon us. And on and on it goes…I’m so sorry.

All of this seems too much for someone to tolerate, and yet there you are, putting on a brave face and enduring everything. I asked you to forgive me this morning, and you told me there was nothing to forgive, as always, the epitome of understanding. I suppose I had no control over the events of this weekend, but I still feel horrible for essentially deserting you here, not knowing what was going on.

My dad told me about the conversation you two had the other day—how you said losing gloves is your tragic flaw and he told you he’s never heard of one of Shakespeare’s heroes spiraling to his downfall because of a lost glove. The irony is rich, isn’t it? Think of all the chaos that’s unraveled, all because of that stupid striped glove. Regardless of the cause, there’s no turning back. We can’t erase what happened. Now we must try to move forward.

I won’t pretend I’m happy about the arrangement you’ve made with my father. I guess I should take comfort in knowing things could be much worse—at least it was my father who found us out and not someone else. Being forced to drastically rein in our behavior doesn’t change what’s in my heart, though. I’m not prepared to apologize for my feelings. I’m not sorry we met, and I’m not sorry I’m falling in love with you—HAVE fallen in love with you. I won’t apologize for wanting to be with you every minute of the day, for wanting to talk to you and laugh with you, for wishing I could hold you and kiss you…

It’s inconceivable to me that we’ll be completely out of contact, except for classroom time, without even texts or emails to sustain us, especially when I remember how excited I was to receive that first email from you last Friday. I suppose I’ll have to reread it until I’ve committed it to memory, and fill this flash drive with even more letters to you that I’m not able to send.

All I can hope for now is that the coming weeks will pass quickly and without further incident. I’m notorious for torturing myself with recriminations and for overthinking everything, but I hope the wait and the time apart doesn’t take too much of a toll on you. I would gladly bear the entire burden if it meant peace of mind for you, and that’s the reason I’m agreeing to your conditions. I want your conscience to remain clear. I would hate to put pressure on you, heaping guilt on you in the process, so I will take my lead from you.

If I could make one demand of the universe, it would be this—

Sonnet 19

“Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion’s paws,
And make the earth devour her own sweet brood;
Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger’s jaws,
And burn the long-lived phoenix in her blood;
Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleets,
And do whate’er thou wilt, swift-footed Time,
To the wide world and all her fading sweets;
But I forbid thee one most heinous crime:
O, carve not with thy hours my love’s fair brow,
Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen;
Him in thy course untainted do allow
Yet, do thy worst, old Time: despite thy wrong.”

Regardless of Shakespeare’s intentions when he wrote this sonnet, my sweet, what I see within those lines is a desperate lover pondering the damaging effects of the slow passing of time while waiting helplessly for the day when he can be with the one he loves. Please don’t allow the waiting to eat away at you. When you think of me and of our future, please anticipate the joy ahead of us and smile. I will try to do the same.

I hope you took my advice and gave the sonnets a read. I’m not sure how Shakespeare was able to tap into human nature with such facility, but for me, the sonnets are a treatise on the human condition, especially in dark times. In a couple of weeks, you’ll be doing a sonnet analysis, which will bring us together, alone in a room, with the legitimate purpose of working through your analysis together. Is it entirely ridiculous of me to say I’m living for that meeting?

When I say things like that, I realize that my life has taken on the absurd qualities of an after-school teen drama, or perhaps a Kafka novel. I don’t know which is worse. This weekend was particularly Kafka-esque, but despite the frustration I endured during the two days I spent up at the cottage, there was one positive outcome: inspiration. On Friday night, as I sat alone in the great room thinking of you, imagining you there with me (almost feeling your presence), I decided that we’ll celebrate the end of the semester at the cottage. I’ll make love to you for the first time in front of the fire, the light from the flames casting dancing patterns across your lovely skin, with my fingers following the journey of those shadowy flickers, enticing flames of their own.

God, I’ve done it again. Look how easily I get myself worked up! There are certainly drawbacks to having such a vivid imagination. (What would you say if you saw the evidence of what my overwrought imagination cooked up on Friday night? I’d better hope no one rummages through the desk drawer in my room at the cottage. They’d soon see substantiated—in rather unfortunate prose—the effects of having our weekend trip snatched away from me at the last minute.)

Well, I must close here. I have a whole set of tests to mark. I also have some messages on my phone that need attending to. I’ll mark first. I fear listening to those messages you sent me over the weekend would entirely obliterate all hopes of productivity and merely send me straight to Jackman to pull you into my arms and hold you close for hours.

I remain most determinedly yours,

Daniel

xoxoxo…

Good afternoon, my darling girl,

It’s a little after 4:30, and I’ve just received the most amazing email from you (and swiftly replied, of course…). When I emailed you last night after retrieving those messages from the weekend, I sincerely didn’t mean to put pressure on you to respond. After reading and listening to your anguished words, I simply couldn’t imagine not letting you know again how sorry I am for the way the weekend played out.

Hearing those messages made me feel sick. Imagining you thought I was capable of just ignoring you all weekend, of disregarding your calls and texts to meet some personal agenda gutted me. But then I realized, I have to take responsibility for you drawing that conclusion. I did do that to you a couple of weeks ago, when you reached out to me to try to explain what happened at the Maddy. I let my pride to dictate my actions. Allow me to assure you now: that will never happen again.

I said I didn’t expect you to reply to my email yesterday, I meant it. I’d have been disappointed if you hadn’t replied, but I don’t think even I could have predicted how elated I’d feel upon receiving a response. Please don’t think yourself a bad person. I agree wholeheartedly with your assessment: if communicating in writing will help you keep your promise to my father and ensure we don’t both lose our minds in the meantime, then this is a good thing.

Right, I must be off. I have some book shopping to do. A certain young lady I know is in dire need of a pick-me-up and I think I know just the book that might do it. Hope you’re having a lovely afternoon. I miss you. I’ll write more soon.

(These letters feel even weirder now that we ARE communicating in writing, but I’m determined to finish what I started. I told you I’m stubborn. Persistent even. Compulsive…?)

Yours,

Daniel

xoxoxo…

Hi, gorgeous,

It’s Friday—the end of another week, a really long week. The hours seem to stretch on interminably, don’t they? It was so difficult walking away from you today. I confess I’ve never enjoyed a tutorial so much in my life. Lame, right? I’m glad Shawn pressed me to explain my views on love at first sight. I meant what I said. I truly think it’s possible to recognize, from the outset, the essential qualities that you admire and appreciate in someone, in your case, qualities which go well beyond physical attraction. Romeo’s first assessment of Juliet is certainly based on her beauty, but when I first saw you, Aubrey, the pull was so much more than a simple reaction to your physical attributes.

I saw this plucky girl, sticking her neck out when no one else would. The look in your eyes as you gazed across the room at me—defiance? A challenge? I don’t know what it was, but there was such strength of character in your expression. I knew you’d be a force to be reckoned with (if only I’d had a clue just how powerful a force you really are…LOL). But then you blushed and lowered your eyes. Intelligence, strength and vulnerability, all in the space of a minute and a half—so compelling. Then I noticed your warmth and enthusiasm when you greeted Julie, and of course you stood up to hug her, and you were all long legs and tight jeans, beautiful shiny hair, fair skin, ruby red lips…and I was all asdfghjkl…(that’s my brain being turned to mush…)

To put it succinctly, I was done-for in about two minutes flat. Well done, my beautiful, brilliant girl.

Thinking about your delicious lips quickly led to much more passionate (and much less appropriate) thoughts. I can’t allow myself to feel too guilty about this. After all, history is replete with men who’ve fallen prey to the allure of an intelligent woman’s beauty…

MY DOWNFALL

“My downfall: those pink articulate lips
Divinely flavoured portals to a mouth
Where soul dissolves…eyes darting
Beneath black brows, snares for the heart,
And the milk-white breasts, well-shaped,
The twin rosebuds, fair beyond other flowers.”

Dioskorides wrote that in the third century BC, and millions of men have experienced the same downfall in the interim, I’m sure. That alone allows me to forgive myself for suffering a similar fate.

I’m serious when I call you “brilliant,” by the way. Your brilliance actually got me into some hot water this week. I had the worst time marking your test the other night. It was perfect—every argument cogent and well-rounded, every example precise and spot on. How the hell did you do that, in the state of mind you must have been in on Friday? You boggle my mind, sweetheart.

Anyway, afraid to give you a perfect score, I took off a couple of marks for what might have passed for faulty logic (to a reader from Mars, who has no knowledge of the English language or Shakespeare’s canon…I’m such a dick). Martin took exception to my assessment and gave me a talking to this afternoon. (Luckily, I was taking marks off, and not inflating the mark, so he couldn’t accuse me of favoritism…) Simply put, my assessment was unfair (I put the “ass” in “unfair assessment”), and he’s awarded you a perfect score. I’m pleased that he gave you those marks back, and particularly happy that it was his call to make, and not mine.

The incident has raised a red flag, though, not regarding my treatment of you, in particular, but about the need for clear assessment criteria. I’m sure we’ll be working more closely on this for the rest of the semester, and frankly, I’m so relieved. That’s another one of those issues my father’s been harping on about since day one, so now I can say with all confidence, that our relationship won’t affect your grades, one way or the other.

On that happy note, I’m going to have to sign off. I’m meeting Jeremy for a quick beer and giving him a book I’ve bought you. I’m hoping he can convince Julie to swing by your place and drop it off for you. I know how much you love Sarah Waters’ writing, and in my humble opinion, it’s a crying shame not to being able to buy yourself books because your budget is so tight.

Though I’m not with you, I feel the invisible thread that you read about in another one of Waters’ books, strong as always, holding us together. Do you still feel it, Aubrey? That thread? I think it gets stronger every day, along with my affection for you.

Yours, heart and soul,

Daniel

xoxoxo…

Well, hello, my stubborn and incredibly sexy girl. Allow me to pend a few moments justifying that dichotomous description.

Stubborn: Don’t you understand how much I love surprising you? I want to spoil you silly.

THAT is why I’m so frustrated by this arbitrarily imposed moratorium on gifts. Why must you be so stubborn? WHY?

I wanted to shake you today when you told me I’m not allowed to buy you anything for 31 days. Why can’t you see the pleasure it gives me? You drive me crazy, you realize that, right? Is it not bad enough that I can’t show my affection for you physically? I mean, look at the lengths I had to go to today to cajole you into spending ten minutes with me within a legitimate framework. I’m sorry you were upset by the way the grading of your test played out, but I won’t apologize for seizing that opportunity to talk with you alone in the reading room—to hold your hand for five minutes and exchange a few quiet, intimate words.

It’s beyond frustrating knowing I’m not just incapable of showing you affection with hugs and kisses, but now, I’m also hobbled by your ridiculous no-gifts rule. However, being the semantics aficionado that I am, I distinctly remember you saying, “Stop buying me things.” That doesn’t mean I can’t GIVE you things. It only means I’m not allowed to spend money. This, my lovely, is what is often referred to as a loophole. It’s also a challenge. And in case you didn’t know by now, I fucking love a challenge. (And I’m just as stubborn as you are.)

Sexy: While our chat in the library was easily the best ten minutes of my day, I confess the discussion left me a little shaken. I never imagined we’d meander so off course as to find ourselves discussing blow jobs and your need to relieve your own sexual tension—WHICH YOU DID LAST NIGHT!?!?! God, what my imagination does with thoughts like those.

Speaking of which—my jeans, right now? WAY too tight. (I’ve realized that these are possibly the strangest love letters ever written, but I’m in too far to stop now. Just humor me, okay?)

I’ll write again soon, poppet, but for now, I must go. I have some free gift brainstorming to do.

And other…stuff.

~Daniel

xoxoxo…