Sealed with a kiss. At least that’s what the envelope said. Pale blue like a cartoon tear, its corners softened and round with age. The front had faded - left in a sunny window, maybe - but you could see the letter "G" in ballpoint, legible not neat. And on the back, in the same handwriting, "SWAK."
- He had this in pocket. I figured it was from you.
- Yeah, it was. It is. Did you read it?
- No.
- You can, Paul. I don’t mind.
- No thanks. I think Gene might, and anyway I don’t want to. This note was something between you and him. It should stay that way.
On the porch swing next to Paul, rocking back and forth in silence, Emily tries to imagine which note Gene would have carried with him. She doesn’t remember this note, or any of them. There were probably hundreds, and all the details of her teenage life that seemed so important to share with him then have blurred to a flat gray.
The stationery was a Christmas present from her weird aunt, who advised her to "leave a record of her life in love." So, when she met Gene, she decided to write him a note every night, after her homework was done. She would sit cross-legged on her bed, pull a yearbook across her lap, open the drawer in her bedside table, and pull out a sheet of paper and an envelope.
- Can I see it?
- Ok. I mean, if you’re ok to see it.
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