The postcard arrived from what I'd have thought of as hell. Silence, meditation, farmland. I'm a city guy, feet grounded in concrete and head full of smog. This guy, on the other hand, was full on hot air about the country. Fresh, hot, manure-scented air. He loved every second--said it gave him "inspiration". Even his handwriting was pretentious. Tiny loops where they weren't needed. Written in fountain pen, which I knew because I'd seen him use it--slowly, with great pomp and circumstance, taking painstaking time to waste no ink.
"greetings" the wretched practically chimed at me. "Hello" wouldn't have sufficed and "hi" was right out of the question, I guessed. "I'm having a perfectly lovely time out here the air smells so rustic and the people are so Earthy." That was his classist way of saying 'poor'. "I've been eating lots of potatoes and running extra as a result." Lies. He barely ran at home. "And the cats have taken an immediate liking to me." That's because he doesn't shower enough and he smells like tuna all the time. "Lots of quiet time in which to get my book done." Okay, I know you don't work without headphones--an electronic banned on the farmy retreat, but sure. "You'd absolutely love every second." false, and he knew it. "Hope to see you soon." More lies, he never visits. "Lots of love, your brother, Edward." That was the first expression of love he'd made towards me in fifteen years.
Maybe I was missing something. Maybe the shit-air suited him. Maybe things were about to change-and for once maybe it was for the better.
--writing prompt from The Write Brain Workout.
Writing time: ten minutes
