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By chris Date: 2007 Apr 22 Comment on this Work [[2007.04.22.17.31.694]] |
| "Buenas," began the letter addressed to Jack. What the hell, he thought. A letter? Who writes letters anymore? It had been placed under his driver's side windshield wiper, and he saw it when he went out to the parking lot on his first break of the evening. The monolithic glass-cube call center loomed behind him, the windows reflecting the sun that was just then setting behind the volcanos on the west side of the river. He continued to read the carefully rendered purple handwriting on loose-leaf paper. Wide rule. And printing, he noted, not cursive. She wanted no misunderstandings. "Go back to your wife," the writer went on. "Do not call or text me again, and do not talk to me about honor. Be glad I am saying this to you and not to your wife. If she has found out by now and wants to talk to me she can. I know my guilt, it is your who must discover your's. Do not mention honor because we have had no honor." He leaned up against the car, shifted his weight from one leg to the other. The security guard outside the front door scanned the parking lot for his supervisor and lit a furtive cigarette. Jack read no more and crumpled it up. He threw it under the car next to his. No doubt the roadrunner who lived somewhere in the periphery of the parking lot would find it. Would probably think it was food. No wonder it was too fat to fly. |