Answer To A "Dear John" Letter

Dear Jayne,

Thanks for your letter: admirably piercing in its pointedness. I had this funny picture in my mind's eye of you sitting behind a desk in a plush office. You had on a double breasted, pinstriped blue suit. Yes, it was you, but your hair, manlike and blondish, floated in unruly wisps away from your forehead as you gestured dismissively with your fingers: "You're fired!"

It makes a world of good sense to "take care of business" a la "The Donald", especially in your own bailiwick, which is both your world and mine and which is (and always will be) a "Lady's Choice" one. I didn't, by the way, plan to "fall like a ton of bricks" for you. It just happened- and gradually. Don't worry. I promise to make this the last communication of any kind. Besides, equally genuine feelings, of a diametrically opposite kind (from those tender ones for you) will, hopefully, help me to keep my sanity and, in turn, comfort you: in knowing that I won't get all soppy sustaining any pining and bothersome pleas to maintain a relatedness to you.

Still, I do wish to thank you for a gladness that comes from our experience together. It has now been proven that such a thing could happen again in my life. Maybe that thing was just propinquity or even mere geography. Or maybe not....

A good thing about "falling" at my age, is that, akin to an old cockroach that has awakened after a long sleep and finds his legs pointing toward the ceiling, it takes a while to right one's self and get under way. But here's the particularly good thing: it's an easy enough trick for the offended homeowner (or platonic "friend") to spray on an insecticide (or to send a letter like yours) and watch the critter quickly come to a halt and to, soon enough, cease living (or loving). It's all quite unlike the realm of Youth where the passion combusts in a flash, as in the storied Sicilian "Thunderbolt" and the sulfuric stench and smoke of bad grace (after the flames have been forcefully doused by the powerful snuffing brutality of irrevocable rejection) lingers intolerably. The "tender and callow fellow", a.k.a. Poor-slob-of-a-would-be-Romeo, either makes a thoroughly tiresome pest of himself, or else has the decency to transform his abyss-wallowing into an act of self-annihilation. Remember the scene in an old French movie where a fatally smitten and semi-retarded youth pins a ribbon or rose on his naked chest preparatory to a shotgun blast (or was it a successful hanging)? Can't remember which.

None of any of that for this ol' "cucaracha". Like I said when we shared, what I guess, was our last cup of coffee: "I'm running out of gas." But perhaps to torture a metaphor, instead of frantically looking for a service station, I'm going to find a legal parking spot...and then walk home. I'll mix a steaming mug of chocolate, all for myself, and go to my collection of country tunes. I will NOT cue "He Stopped Loving Her Today", much though I love old George. No, this man manque will slip on his slippers and then put on "Livin' On Love", Mr. Jackson's warm welcome to his world, one that for many of us, only might have been, but its all loving embrace comforts especially, the friendless.

I shall always be on, if not at, your side and a daily prayer for you will be the best I can and will do.


Warmest regards,
Homer