Friday, April 1, 2011

letter four


Dear Bartender,

After your meeting with the adviser, you were totally spent. The weight of the burden of the computer work you had ahead of you was resting atop everything else you're balancing at the moment. When you arrived home, I heated up lasagna. Set your place with sriracha sauce, sparkling water and three heaving slices of pasta squares. You went back into the kitchen to retrieve the beefy corn soup from the fridge. I want soup too. I shooed you out of the kitchen with strict instructions to sit down. Relax. I'll warm up some soup.

Three minutes later, the steam is rising towards your face. You slurp the hot liquid in between bites of the also steamy lasagna. Isn't that hot? I inquire while staring up at you from my reclined position on the couch. Ya, but I'm starving. I watch you. You watch the sports program on television. Eat, eat, eat then sit back. Moments of repose before another shift. I ask if you got the note I left in the morning, wishing you well. Drank the water I left out. Ate the snack bar. I see that you're wearing the button down shirt I put out. Do you know why I did those things? You curl your face inward, trying to beat out the smile with a scowl. Because that's the only way I may feel like I'm there with you, supporting you, when I have to be at work instead. You snicker. Rest your head on my shoulder/chest. Many moments pass before you rise again. Time for work...

The next day, you call me at work while you're waiting to park in the bar's lot, stuck behind a Sysco truck. 15 mins so far. This happens a lot. Then I hear you talking to someone and you say that you need to go. That you'll call later.

One workday for me. One gym visit for you. Later on, I return home and you're typing at the computer. The monitor's glow shines on your glasses. Concentration straightens your features. I rest my bag in its usual spot. Place my lunch things on the counter. Teeter over to you. You type for a few seconds. I ask if there's anything I can do. No, not yet. I have just a few more hours of work left on this. A bit today. Some tomorrow. Then I need to send it off to her again.

You spin the office chair around. What's up, my nerds? You motion for me to sit on your lap. Tender kisses. You are calm. You grab the Excel sheet and explain the breakdown of first year projections. Line-by-line. We talk about advertising costs. What the notion of good will is where a commercial loan is concerned. You strategize potential profit. Your earnings. Retiring at 50. Having the building paid off by 45. I comment about how you seem in better spirits. Ya, this stuff is actually pretty interesting when you look at it. Well, baby, you like things to be broken down into lists. It's no longer a large single number looming over you with no reference for why it's so large.

I rise and we discuss concern over the appraisal. The only factor at this moment that could blow up the whole deal. If the town's appraisal is much higher than the appraisal we must pay for next, then this whole project, work, fantasizing will have been for naught. If the appraisal comes in really low then the asking price needs to be lower and the owner may not budge. And, since we're both mentally prepared to make this move, uproot our city life to the country, we're really concerned about this block. It's totally out of our control. Unsettling.

You break away to continue typing. I watch you from the couch. Typing with only two fingers. This sort of computer work is foreign to you. Perhaps that's why you were fretting about this portion of the process?

You call me over to edit the spreadsheet. We triple check to make sure we've saved both documents. You head to work turning yourself around in the alleyway not sure where you parked. The usual routine. Nightly dance. I head to yoga. All seems per usual. All except for what's resting on our minds now. As we can't discuss with others what's going on, the burden is fully ours.

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