In a sec you’ll hear a thunk. At your front door, the one nobody uses. It’ll rattle the hinges a bit when it
lands, because it’s so weighty and important, a little jangle along with the thunk, and Joan will look up
from whatever she’s cooking. She will look down in her saucepan, worried that if she goes to see what it
is it’ll boil over. I can see her frown in the reflection of the bubbly sauce or whatnot. But she’ll go, she’ll
go and see. You won’t, Ed. You wouldn’t. You’re upstairs probably, sweaty and alone. You should be
taking a shower, but you’re heartbroken on the bed, I hope, so it’s your sister, Joan, who will open the
door even though the thunk’s for you. You won’t even know or hear what’s being dumped at your door.
You won’t even know why it even happened.
It’s a beautiful day, sunny and whatnot. The sort of day when you think everything will be all right, etc.
Not the right day for this, not for us, who went out when it rains, from October 5 until November 12. But
it’s December now, and the sky is bright, and it’s clear to me. I’m telling you why we broke up, Ed. I’m
writing it in this letter, the whole truth of why it happened. And the truth is that I goddamn loved you so
much.