I have a prediction about what it will say: Maybe some details of the pay-it-forward day. Maybe another task. Maybe a question or two. A funny quip. A personal challenge.
Mostly, I’m thinking about what I will say. Or won’t say.
Needless to say, my workout is one of those at-least-I-showed-up kind of workouts. Showing up is half the battle, right? Consistency counts for something?
I gather my belongings, notebook included, and stuff it all into my bag, head home, and leave it on the kitchen island until I can figure out what to do.
It sits there all during dinner, glaring at me.
I’ve made dinner for myself every night for years in this kitchen, but the presence of that notebook makes me feel like the room is cavernous, like everything I’m doing echoes in the vast emptiness of the space around me. I’m cooking one chicken breast and placing it on one plate and pouring wine for one person… well, maybe enough wine for two.
Regardless, dinner tonight is just me and that dumb notebook.
What has happened to me?
I force myself to reframe my evening. I’ve always looked forward to communication from my secret person with mystery and wonder and anticipation. I try to recreate that feeling.
After I’ve emptied my plate and my glass(es) of wine, I finally summon enough resolve to shuffle over to the counter, grab the white envelope with the ever-present blue string, and shuffle back to my seat.
“Here goes nothing,” I sigh and the expanse of the room echoes it back at me.
Inside the notebook, in that all-too-familiar blue scrawl, is a note from my secret person.
It’s lovely. It includes heartwarming details regarding coffeehouses around town and what it was like to watch people receive a paid-for coffee, noting similar characteristics of their posture and demeanor after being honored by a stranger. It also includes the moment my secret person received their own paid-for coffee. It was at the coffeehouse on B Street by the florist.
I went to so many coffeehouses and bought so much coffee I don’t even remember if I purchased coffee there, but my mind wanders to the moment I met Matthew that day. My brain flips through images of his smile and his firm handshake. It makes me smile for the first time since I opened the notebook. I find myself looking away from the pages as I let the images settle into my core.
And then it’s my turn. My turn to write back. There are instructions for another dead-drop location, which actually piques my sense of wonder again. This time I am to put it in the book return slot at the public library in town. I actually find myself smiling again, wondering how my secret person can make that work? I’m mildly enchanted by the mystery of it all again.
Which helps a lot because now I know exactly what my written reply will be.
I turn to the next available page and write the shortest, simplest message I’ve ever written:
“I want to text you.”
That’s it.
Five words.
After I’ve written the words, I feel the urge to elaborate, to explain what I mean and how I feel, but I fight hard against it. One thing that’s inherent in our secret-person situation is the fact that we don’t share nuances or body language or tone of voice. That’s part of what makes it feel so lonely, and so I let ithang, just let those five words be whatever they will be to my secret person.
I force myself to close the journal and seal it back in the envelope before I rethink my position on the matter and succumb to the urge to include more words. Part of me wonders if it’s over, if this will be the last I’ll hear from my secret person. Another part of me holds onto the thread of hope that my secret person will mystify me again with a way to text and communicate, rolling with the punches in a mysterious way.
After dropping the envelope into the library book drop on my way to work the next day, I’m back at my waiting game again. However, this time feels different.
My phone vibrates. It’s a message from Matthew.
“How does Saturday morning work for you? 9am? We can go get brunch at Walker's.”
I gaze at my phone for a long time, the words blurring in my stare.
Yes.
That’s my answer. I’d like to go to brunch with Matthew. So why don’t I start a response? I just stare.
My core tightens and I feel my heart in my chest, pounding against my ribs.
I don’t know how to think or what to feel.
