by Pat A Physics
Fan-mail in the last day or two has been scarce for Betty. She used to get it,
without fail, every day. She was crying about it yesterday and now, today,
her face is this worn out red sock. “Don’t worry, Betty. It’s going to pick
up. I know it.” They are empty words, and she knows it. She tells me that
the words she wants to hear, you can’t hear. You have to read them. It’s
this obsession with mail. She waits for it in a nettling way. Tapping the box
containing a pile of letters from overseas. Peculiar, shiny stamps glinting
with each tap sending reflections all over the ceiling in hairy, tinsel patterns.
Then I start to make fun of her because- what else can I do? This works.
She stops worrying about the fan-mail. Who cares about who cares? She
gets back to work on her diagrams and centigrams with lasers. I sometimes
think she might be too high-tech for words on paper. It was just a phase.