The Love Letters: A Novella

by Ashley Pullo

  So on that day, prior to our fantastical meeting, Claire signed a document giving you sixty-percent ownership of Parker & Parker . . . and then you sold it. BAM!

  You’ll be glad to know that as of 10:00 p.m. last night, Parker & Parker officially changed to Parker and some drug research company in Jersey City.

  Raymond is going to be PISSED!

  Representatives from the 9/11 Memorial Fund and the Pediatric Cancer Unit of Mt. Sinai Hospital sent lovely bouquets. The hospital also sent a suit to honor their most generous donor, Dr. Claire Parker.

  Well played, my friend, well played.

  After the funeral, Aunt Patty hosted a gathering of close family and friends at your house. Oh man, some of the stories I heard nearly made me pee my pants. Did you know Claire was a model during Med School? Like a nude model? Like she hung out at Studio 54, NUDE? Wow!

  It was a celebratory evening – Claire would have loved it. We spent the night passing around photo albums, drinking wine, and sharing charming stories of the great Claire Dumas. And maybe I was plastered, but I just knew she was somewhere laughing with us.

  All and all, you would have been very pleased. Never apologize for not being there, Zach Parker – you were everywhere.

  I love you.

  No regrets,

  Nat

  PS- Chloe has this thing with vinyl records. And if there’s some sort of investigation as to Edith’s whereabouts, Chloe is the one that shanked it.

  Jack and his big mouth. Although, Nat is extremely tenacious and almost always gets her way. But if Jack told anyone about what I plan to do with Mom’s engagement ring, I’ll kill him.

  I take the square package and flip it over in my hand. As my finger traces the return address, my former address, I think about the events of the past few months. Fate sure has a funny way of showing up and making things exciting.

  Ripping open the package and pulling out the record I know so well, I smile. The cover is worn and faded and there is a large rip near the opening – but it tells a story. I find a large Post-it note stuck to the backside with Nat’s distinctive handwriting, and a pencil drawing of a stick figure with a glass.

  From the sardonic wisdom of Edith Piaf:

  “After it’s all over, we’ll go out and have a drink together.”

  XO

  Nat

  Staring up at the dark sky and finding my favorite star, the idea comes to me.

  I flip over the Post-it and scribble down the date, but then I quickly scratch through it. This isn’t a dated love letter, I’ll write those later – this Post-it is my last letter . . . my safety net.

  I tap my pen against the Edith Piaf record, thinking of how to express future sentiments when my journey comes to an end.

  The end.

  Either home in the arms of the girl I love, or buried in a box of memories, this note will be the last.

  Ma femme,

  Je ne regrette rien, because I found everything.

  I love you.

  Zach

  THE LOVE LETTERS

  January 3, 2003

  Fuck Muffin,

  Happy New Year! Is it possible to have a hangover for two days? If so, then I hold you responsible because you made me have a party!

  New Year’s Eve was supposed to be a small gathering of some friends. Very casual. Chloe and I rented movies and bought as much junk food and liquor as we could carry from across the street. Which I’ll have you know, your girl has some major biceps! I benched three bottles of wine and two cases of beer easily.

  The plan was to hang out by ourselves until guests arrived around 11 p.m. We were bored and thirsty by 9 p.m., so Chloe and I had a few beers, a couple vodka grapefruits, and a delicious rum milkshake garnished with Oreos. Around 10 p.m., one of us had a brilliant idea – a photo shoot. The initial theme was 1940s pin-up – something classy you could display in your bunk.

  The first few poses were very sensual but tame. And then slowly, after shots of tequila, I began doing things that would make a porn star blush. And even better? My cousin took the photos! As soon as I have the courage to print the pictures, I’m sending them to you – as long as you promise that NO ONE else will see them.

  Where was I? Oh yeah, after the pornographic photo shoot, Chloe and I made a solemn promise to NEVER speak of those pictures. She offered to take them because she loves me, but even I feel like we overstepped a few familial boundaries. I suggested she take more photos of the party, like our friends playing beer pong or something. She needed to cleanse her palette so to speak.

  When our friends arrived, I felt oddly uncomfortable. The rum milkshake was most likely the culprit, but I also had a sharp aching in my stomach. We were all in your apartment! It’s like we snuck in to have a party – in your life. It’s not fair, Zach. I don’t want to feel like I’m playing a role in your other life.

  Why can’t you be here? Stop making me feel like you don’t even exist!

  That was mean.

  I’m sorry.

  But it’s true. Sometimes I believe you’re an invisible friend.

  I need you here, Zach. Always.

  XO Natalie

  January 5, 2003

  Natalie,

  The day has arrived. I’m leaving on a convoy later today and heading north toward Tora Bora. My assignment came earlier than expected, but that’s the way the military works. People get moved around when the opportunity and the means are considered priority.

  From what I’ve heard, it’s actually pretty enjoyable in that area of the country. Beaucoups of sand, but surprisingly, an attractive landscape. I’ve been instructed to bring only the essentials. Therefore, Mario Lopez will have to stay behind and defend my footlocker – but with his dimples, he can charm any enemy.

  I’m emailing you a new address to use that will transport my mail to the closest PE (postal exchange.) I’m also enclosing a check for you to spend on a lingerie shopping-spree. Nothing would bring a bigger smile to my face than imagining you picking out things you know I would like. In fact, I’ll need details in your next correspondence.

  I won’t have email access, so it’s time to make the postal system our bitch.

  I love you.

  Zach

  January 7, 2003

  Lt. Love Monkey,

  Holy shit that address is long! I’ll also have you know that the last time I wrote a series of love letters to a guy was 1991. Luke Perry and I had a very special bond.

  Maybe I could use one of his letters and substitute your name?

  “Oh, Zach, your sideburns are so sexy. I love when you drive fast in your vintage car and dress like James Dean. Will you marry me?”

  What if I write about my sexual fantasies? Is that a good place to start?

  XO Nat

  January 13, 2003

  Natalie,

  Luke Perry? Lame. And seriously, could they not find a younger actor to play a high school kid? I’m happy to know your taste in men has evolved. It is my honor to be your perfect specimen.

  And don’t freak about the letters. They don’t have to be anything we’re not. Tell me stories, send me pictures, and just be you.

  I’ll go first.

  When I was in middle school, I had this friend named Joey Darts. Well, that was his nickname. A moniker he received from hanging around his uncle’s pub. You’ve lived in Greenwich, so you’ll understand what I mean by pub. (A high-class establishment near the water that serves wine and liquor.) But the place did have an amazing billiard room.

  So Joey would go there during lunch and play darts. By 9th grade, he had a hustling scam going that racked in $1000 every week.

  A few of the pissed-off marks eventually reported Joey’s illegal activities. No charges were pressed, but Joey’s parents immediately pulled him from school and shipped him off to some military academy in the South.

  And as fate would have it, guess who I played darts with last night? Lt. Joseph Darts O’Sullivan.

  Your turn.

&nb
sp; Love,

  Zach

  January 21, 2003

  Zach,

  Do you mean O’Sullivan’s by the Water? The one with mermaid statue by the door? I loved that place!

  I’m not a great storyteller, but I’ll try my best.

  Yesterday I went shopping at Saks with my newly acquired lingerie allowance from my sugar daddy. It’s been a while since I’ve done anything crazy, so it was the perfect opportunity to reenact my favourite scene in Pretty Woman “I’ve got money to spend here.” I waltzed into the lingerie department with an arrogant smile – demanding to be waited on while I flashed wads of cash. It totally worked! Sales ladies were parading items from European designers in front of me while I sat on a velvet sofa drinking champagne. They even rolled out the fancy shit that’s usually reserved for celebrities and high-dollar escorts.

  After choosing my favourite colors and styles, I was escorted to a private fitting room with intimate lighting and a wall of mirrors. As I was removing my clothes, a very attractive woman entered the fitting room. She gave me a flirtatious smile before locking the door and joining me.

  While helping me out of my clothes, her hand innocently brushed against my exposed breasts. I was flushed and unprepared – new feelings excited me. I watched her as she circled me, closely inspecting my nude form. Stopping in front of me and cocking her eyebrow, she then removed a measuring tape from her pocket. To my surprise, she wrapped the tape around my chest, tugging slightly as her hand grazed my hard nipples. It was sensual. No, it was fucking hot.

  Getting back to the lingerie . . . she asked me what styles and fabric I wanted to try. Unsure and wanting to flirt, I asked her to show me hers. She removed her dress and placed my hand on the cup of her bra, wanting me to feel the texture of the lace. Definitely my style, and I loved the matching thong. Moving my hand to her ass, she mentioned that all the husbands and boyfriends love the lace ruffle on the gray thong. Very vintage and sexy.

  When I explained that my man was overseas playing darts and shooting guns, she took me in her arms and kissed my cheek. I’m sorry, Zach, but I blame Pretty Woman and the glass of champagne.

  Our lips met. We giggled at first – but as soon as our breasts pressed together, it all felt very natural.

  I bought $586 worth of lingerie. And as I write this bogus story, I’m wearing the gray lace thong with the tiny row of ruffles.

  Come home to me and I’ll make it happen.

  xoxo Nat

  January 30, 2003

  Natalie,

  It’s official.

  You’re the perfect woman.

  Zach

  February 2, 2003

  Nat,

  Do you realize what your last letter has done to me? All I have to do is glance at the envelope and I ejaculate. But that’s the point, huh?

  Story . . .

  According to a mangy goat, the mountains of Tora Bora are cursed with another six weeks of winter. Respecting Afghani folklore, Staunch, Perkins, Floyd and I trailed the goat during our morning shift. Twelve kilometers due south, Gumby took a dump with his body facing away from the barren poppy field – which is obviously the same thing as Staten Island Chuck seeing his shadow.

  Bad news: An Army squad stationed in Kandahar received a shipment of Adderall instead of Atenolol. Good news: I’m returning to Camp Hammond in a few weeks to update the Pharmacy Database. The length of my assignment has not been confirmed, but holy shit, I’ll take whatever I can get. It’s a major morale booster to have a few days/weeks when air smells like air, food tastes like food, and whacking off feels private. I’m so sick of everything tasting and smelling like dirty sand. My toothbrush tastes like dirt. My cot is full of sand. And yesterday, I noticed tan lines forming around my goggles. How did I get tan lines from my patrol goggles when my shifts are usually at night? LAYERS OF FUCKING SAND.

  Changing the subject.

  Natalie-body-part-of-the-day!! Your eyes.

  Most nights I fall asleep trying to think of the exact color of your eyes. Blue seems too obvious, and green would be a lie. Comparing the color to the ocean would be a disservice, because let’s face it, the Atlantic Ocean is nasty.

  Is blue a sad color? Not at all. Blue is a primary color, confident and dominant. Marines wear blue. Democrats like blue. Weezer has a blue album. Elvis had some blue shoes. Tiffany has a trademarked shade of blue.

  But the color of your eyes deserve more than just a four-letter word. Hey Parker, what color are Natalie’s eyes?

  Liberation.

  The color – a vibrant crystal guiding the weariest wanderer home. The shade – a playful distraction in times of melancholy. The hue – serenity when the world unravels. The tint – loyalty, vitality, sensuality, and eternity.

  The color is LIBERATION.

  The day will come when the freedom leads me home. But until that day, I vow to put all my energy into memorizing the color of your eyes.

  Je t’adore, ma femme.

  ~Zach

  February 3, 2003

  Zacharie,

  Addressing your envelopes is a royal pain in my ass. Triple vowels and double consonants should never be partnered, and yet they dance around on the paper, mocking my horrible handwriting and ridiculing my deficiency in spelling. I had a pen pal when I was twelve, Maria Soto Marin from the jungles of Costa Rica, and even she had a shorter address than you!

  As I was taking a break from addressing your letter in fear of carpal tunnel syndrome, I had a crazy idea that you need to suggest to the military postal system. Pictographs! For example, Lt. Zacharie Parker blah, blah, blah, Kabul, Afghanistan, could be something simple like a tic-tac-toe board or a unicorn. I’m not certain of the actual process, but it seems that pictures could be a universal language, albeit an uncrackable code in case it gets in the hands of the Taliban. If you were Taliban, would you open a letter with a unicorn? Seriously, it’s brilliant.

  Okay, continuing the Angie saga: Two nights ago, she knocked on my door wearing a very leathery, pleathery dress and Frankenstein shoes (like Docs with heels.) At first I thought it was another example of her atrocious fashion sense, but then I noticed her face. She had a pink blotch across her cheek and her eyes were red. She started crying in the middle of the hall, so I pulled her inside the apartment and gave her a hug. After making some tea and getting her a cold rag for her cheek, she started talking.

  ARE YOU SITTING DOWN FOR THIS?

  Angie is part of some sexual fetish circle that partakes in public shaming! Jesus Murphy! Angie. The dork that lives next door and makes brownies at least once a week.

  From what I could gather through her blubbering, she’d been at a kinky party and then after, her “date” got very physical with her. I didn’t think it was my place to give advice, but I reminded her that her body belonged to her, and she could have whatever limits she wanted. And then we watched Caddyshack and ate Rocky Road ice cream. It was fun in a strange way, and maybe we could be girlfriends, but I’m counting down the days until Chloe moves in. I told you she’s moving here, right?!

  I took the bedroom measurements and the space can definitely fit two twin beds. Mom brought me shopping in Greenwich and offered to buy Chloe a matching bed we found in a shop – you know the one, Hoity Toity, Nickle and Dime. The owner, Mrs. Patterson, asked about you. Apparently you took piano lessons from her when you were kid, and apparently, she thought you had raw talent. Mrs. Patterson had wonderful things to say about Claire, and she wanted you to know that you are loved and missed. God, that town loves you.

  Which brings me to thing I love about you . . .

  Zach-body-part-of-the-day!

  Your balls.

  Not only are they perfectly proportionate to your giant “heart” but they also inspire me. You take bad situations and do what’s right, even if it means sacrificing a life of your own. Most men are cowards, and only pretend to have a set of balls like you. You’re strong when I’m weak and determined when I’m uncertain. Your balls defend my honor
because they have no fear. And quite frankly, your balls fit nicely in my mouth.

  Come home to me.

  ~Nat

  PS If you’re the FUCKING Taliban reading this private letter, FUCK OFF.

  PPS I can’t get my film developed at CVS on Worth Street anymore. I’ve been flagged for pornography.

  February 6, 2003

  Temptress,

  I’ve had the worst craving for Hot Pockets. Did you have them in Canada? It’s a flaky, scalds the roof of your mouth, cheesy, over-processed, microwavable, unhealthy snack intended for the laziest of slobs. Oddly, Hot Pockets have been in my dreams for the past week. Don’t worry, you’re there too. Naked – with a chicken & broccoli Hot Pocket in your hand. Sometimes the Hot Pockets have cartoon lips and googly eyes as they dance and sing to the commercial jingle.

  In last night’s dream, I was eating you out and the Hot Pocket got jealous. The thing actually cried and ran away – vowing to never let me enjoy its saturated fats ever again. Am I delirious? Or hungry?

  You’ll be happy to know I gained another three pounds of lean muscle. At this rate, I should be the Incredible Hulk in nine months. In fact, I’m going to suggest I be considered for Mr. July in the Marine Corps charity calendar. I’m too sexy for the cold months.

  I got a letter from Chloe yesterday. She mentioned she was in Winnipeg and was ending her festival tour soon to come live with you. I really like Chloe – she’s so bohemian. Make sure you take her to Dunbar’s in the Village for open-mic night.

  Roll out the spinning wheel, it’s time for everyone’s favorite game . . . Nat-body-part-of-the-day!

  YOUR BREASTS

  Forgive me for being crude, but those pictures you sent from NYE make me incredibly horny. So in effort to be a classy gent, I offer a poem of romantic declaration.

  Ode to Natalie’s Boobs

  Breasts so full and round,