No. Trite. Pointless. The postcard is torn up and thrown in the trash. Try again.
Some days I wonder what happened to all my favorite sweaters. Maybe I never unpacked them. It's never cold here, but sometimes I am. Does that make sense?
That one goes in the trash too.
Hey, how's it going? Nat told me that Charlie's dating now. How the hell did you let that happen? He's supposed to be a kid forever, wasn't that the deal? Maybe now he's all grown up and independent you could come spend some time out here.
Hell, no. He doesn't want to remind Casey of what broke their partnership in the first place. Trash.
Casey, here's the thing, I miss you more than I miss the cheesecake from the deli on 3rd, more than I miss the Staten Island ferry on a frosty night. More, even, than I miss getting to see the Knicks romp to the playoffs from courtside. And I don't know what to do about that.
As if he's going to post that. As if he's dumb enough to put it all on the line in a postcard. It follows the others into the rapidly filling trashcan as do at least ten other failed drafts. He's sitting in the same chair, chewing his pen, hours later when it occurs to him that a single sentence says all that he needs to say. He scrawls.
I'm coming home.
He signs it, stamps it and jogs it down to the mailbox before he can change his mind. The blue box swallows it up and Dan feels the sun on his bare arms. It's warm and he can't stop the smile that spreads across his face. He wonders where those sweaters are.
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timeasmymeasure
Sincerely Yours, Dan/Casey, letters, PG
Date: 2007-03-30 03:45 pm (UTC)No. Trite. Pointless. The postcard is torn up and thrown in the trash. Try again.
Some days I wonder what happened
to all my favorite sweaters. Maybe I never
unpacked them. It's never cold here, but
sometimes I am. Does that make sense?
That one goes in the trash too.
Hey, how's it going? Nat told me that
Charlie's dating now. How the hell did you
let that happen? He's supposed to be a kid
forever, wasn't that the deal? Maybe now he's
all grown up and independent you could come
spend some time out here.
Hell, no. He doesn't want to remind Casey of what broke their partnership in the first place. Trash.
Casey, here's the thing, I miss you more
than I miss the cheesecake from the deli on 3rd,
more than I miss the Staten Island ferry on a
frosty night. More, even, than I miss getting to see
the Knicks romp to the playoffs from courtside.
And I don't know what to do about that.
As if he's going to post that. As if he's dumb enough to put it all on the line in a postcard. It follows the others into the rapidly filling trashcan as do at least ten other failed drafts. He's sitting in the same chair, chewing his pen, hours later when it occurs to him that a single sentence says all that he needs to say. He scrawls.
I'm coming home.
He signs it, stamps it and jogs it down to the mailbox before he can change his mind. The blue box swallows it up and Dan feels the sun on his bare arms. It's warm and he can't stop the smile that spreads across his face. He wonders where those sweaters are.