At the End of Our Letters
by David Bateman
Our correspondence became special, hinting of the romance that hadn't quite happened on that holiday we met.
I'd get home from my nightwatchman job and wait up for the postman. If she'd not written, doubtless she was still striving for the exact erotic mood.
I'd picture where she lived: the big old house I'd never seen; her mum in the garden with the four-ten, shooting broccoli for lunch, her dad out on the saltmarsh rustling cattle with his landrover and trusty hound.
Arriving home from college to a lawnful of cattle again, she'd chide her father, return the cattle, and smooth things over with the neighbour. Walking home, she'd think about me all the way.
But something always happened to her plans to visit; and it was strange to eventually realize that all our profusion of hugging and kissing had already gone, and that at the ends of our letters.
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