Actually, I’m right most of the time. Did you know that? LO Oops, I almost did it again. Terrible habit.
You asked me how Shep is doing, and I’m pleased to report that he’s awesome. He may be the smartest pup I’ve ever had. It usually takes six to nine months to train a dog and occasionally longer, but I’ve had him nearly six months now, and he’s almost there. Someone is going to love Shep so much, and he’s going to love them right back. He’ll be a great help and friend to someone deserving.
You asked me about Vicky, and to answer your question, no, I haven’t seen her. My aunt called my dad and talked to him a few days ago. When I asked my father about it, he just mumbled and went right back to reading his book. You said Anthony was being cryptic. What did you mean by that? Should I be reaching out to Vicky or something?
You live in Killeen? How long have you lived there? How big is it? What’s it like? Is it similar to Chicago? Do you like it? Wow, that was a lot of questions. Sorry about that.
Where else have you lived? I know you’re an MP because I overheard one of your brothers at the wedding tell a young woman about you. That stands for military police officer, right? How long have you been an MP? Is that why you enlisted? To be an army cop? I bet you have some pretty good stories from that job, don’t you? I can only imagine what sort of mischief a bunch of army guys and gals get up to.
Well, I think I’ve taken up enough of your time. Sorry for all the questions. You don’t need to answer them if you don’t want to.
Take care,
Matilda
As soon as I read the last word, her name, I realize the smile I had when I started reading the damn letter is still on my face. What is it about this woman that makes me smile? And laugh? Part of me wants to grab my notebook and start a response to her right now, but I’m beat and who knows what I’ll write when I’m dead on my feet? No, I’ve got a day off tomorrow. I’ll write it then.
* * *
Except,I don’t write it then. Or the day after that. Why not? Answer: I’m not sure. Maybe because it feels like letter-writing, the real kind, is especially personal. I mean, sending someone a text takes seconds, and everyone does that. Writing a letter is permanent, physical, and it takes a lot of time. You have to sit down with a pen and construct what you’re going to say, making sure your words make sense and that you don’t make any mistakes because there’s no spellcheck. Then, if you do fuck up, you’ve got to crumple up the stupid paper and start the fucking thing over again.
* * *
Okay,yes, I wrote her back, but I didn’t mail it.
Oh, you want to know why I didn’t mail it?
Read the paragraph above. It’s too personal. And I can’t, for the life if me, figure out why the fuck I want to share personal shit with a strange girl—I mean, woman—from Chicago. Sure, she makes me smile and laugh, and whenever I think about the time at home preparing for Anthony’s wedding, it’s her face I see.
It means nothing.
Well, it means we’re friends, in a way.
Except, I have friends, some here in Texas and a few back home, and I don’t dream about them.
Shit, okay, yeah, I’ve had dreams about her. Good ones.That’s all I’m going to say, all right? You don’t need to get into my fucking head about that shit.
Matilda is just a girl—I mean, woman—who happened to help me out when I needed her. See? She’s a friend. The fact that she’s probably the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen with that deep-red hair, those goddamn freckles on her nose, and rosebud lips, well, that’s just a coincidence. Don’t get me started on that ass of hers. Jesus. Just the way I like a woman, soft and curvy.
The fact that she trains dogs to help vets only adds to her good qualities.
Plus, she’s funny. She’s a funny, strange, pretty woman from my hometown. Hell, those women are everywhere. A dime a dozen.
I snort—the same thing Matilda does all the time—because I’m lying. Matilda isn’t like other women, at least none that I’ve ever met.
All the more reason to tear up the second letter I wrote. The one I took a painstaking amount of time to compose. Two days, actually, thanks to several rewrites. And then I realized the notebook paper I was using looked juvenile, like something someone in high school would use. That realization caused more delays because I had to drive to Waco on my day off to find stationary.
Don’t say anything. It’s only an hour away, and I needed to pick up something for my truck anyway.
Also, I won’t get into the fact I popped into a jewelry store to see what kind of bracelet charms they had. I found an “M” for Matilda, but I didn’t buy it. And because I didn’t grab it when I was there, I’ve spent the last week and a half trying to talk myself out of driving back to get it.
“Fuck,” I say too loudly, loud enough for my partner, Ben, to hear.
“What?” he says with a frown.
“Nothing.” We’re driving around post in our squad car on patrol. Ben’s driving this time, which sucks. It gives me way too much time to think, because Ben doesn’t talk all that much and neither do I, which means we’re usually silent. He’s cool, though. Married, with two kids now—his oldest is three and the other not quite a year. Ben and I have been partners for years. We were both overseas, Afghanistan, as part of a task force assigned to train the Afghan police force.
“It’s not nothing. You’ve been mumbling over there for an hour. What’s up?”
