Deni” or “Hi babe.” But this was fine. He was a lawyer, not a poet.
I’ve missed you so much.
Isn’t this power outage unbelievable? I was at the Senate Building when it all went out. You should have seen the havoc. At first there was a lot of confusion as people kept working with only window light. You know how it is. There’s not much rest for lawmakers, and Senator Crawford wasn’t all that bothered, until he picked up the phone and realized it was out too. Then he tried his cell phone. No dice. It was about then that we started thinking “terrorist attack.” So we gathered up our laptops and rushed out of the building, only to see the traffic stalled in the middle of Constitution Avenue. We were certain it was a terrorist attack, and before we knew it, rumors were flying about it being an electromagnetic pulse. And sure enough, when I tried to boot up my laptop, it was dead too.
She wished he wouldn’t give her a travelogue right off the bat. She had hoped for some declarations of love, some promises, some longing.
It was horrible. I had to walk home, fifteen miles, in my Gucci loafers. I didn’t know what to do with myself. Stranded in that townhouse and having to find water and food, with all the stores closed. You should see me. I’ve lost fifteen pounds. For the first few days I just walked around nibbling on Cheez-Its and drinking bottled water.
Then we learned it was a worldwide event, not just confined to the states. We really had our work cut out for us, trying to decide what to do about the banking system, law enforcement, communication, and Homeland Security. If you think I worked long hours before, you should see me now. I practically live in this building, because it’s so tough getting from one place to another without a car. I’ve found myself wishing I still had that 1967 Plymouth Belvedere my dad kept for twenty years. But even if I did have it, the government would be conscripting it. Senator Crawford was one of the lawmakers that introduced the legislation to do that.
If there were some way to get to you, I would.
She stopped reading. If there were some way? There was a way, and she knew because she had tried it a month into the stinking outage, and she’d almost gotten herself killed by the murdering maniac who’d offered her a ride in his horse-drawn wagon. When she’d finally managed to get a bike, she could have ridden on to D.C., but she’d chosen instead to head home to warn her family before the killer could get back there. She hadn’t had the courage to launch out again.
If he’d wanted to see her badly enough, he could have made it by bike in just a few days. He still could. The letter continued:
I guess our wedding isn’t going to come off like we planned. But if it’s meant to be, I guess we’ll wait for each other.
Her heart sank, and her jaw dropped. What was he saying? That he wasn’t even going to try to get to her? That the wedding date they’d set for October — just eight weeks away — wasn’t going to happen? No declarations of love, no sweet verbal caresses. Not even a sad romanticism. Just a matter-of-fact mention of their aborted wedding, and their future boiled down to an I guess, if .
Were they even still engaged?
She almost couldn’t read the last line through her tears.
I really miss you. Hope this will all be over soon and we can get together again.
“Get together,” like they were acquaintances hoping to do lunch. Did he even realize how cold that sounded? Or did he care?
As grief stole over her, she read the letter again, looking for something she had missed, something between the lines …
Did he still love her? He said he missed her, but it sure didn’t sound like it.
Her mother knocked on her door and leaned in. “Deni, somebody’ll have to go get water and start boiling it, since they took all we had. Your dad has a shift at the well, and I need to stay here in case Jeff comes home.”
Deni turned her wet face up to
I’ve missed you so much.
Isn’t this power outage unbelievable? I was at the Senate Building when it all went out. You should have seen the havoc. At first there was a lot of confusion as people kept working with only window light. You know how it is. There’s not much rest for lawmakers, and Senator Crawford wasn’t all that bothered, until he picked up the phone and realized it was out too. Then he tried his cell phone. No dice. It was about then that we started thinking “terrorist attack.” So we gathered up our laptops and rushed out of the building, only to see the traffic stalled in the middle of Constitution Avenue. We were certain it was a terrorist attack, and before we knew it, rumors were flying about it being an electromagnetic pulse. And sure enough, when I tried to boot up my laptop, it was dead too.
She wished he wouldn’t give her a travelogue right off the bat. She had hoped for some declarations of love, some promises, some longing.
It was horrible. I had to walk home, fifteen miles, in my Gucci loafers. I didn’t know what to do with myself. Stranded in that townhouse and having to find water and food, with all the stores closed. You should see me. I’ve lost fifteen pounds. For the first few days I just walked around nibbling on Cheez-Its and drinking bottled water.
Then we learned it was a worldwide event, not just confined to the states. We really had our work cut out for us, trying to decide what to do about the banking system, law enforcement, communication, and Homeland Security. If you think I worked long hours before, you should see me now. I practically live in this building, because it’s so tough getting from one place to another without a car. I’ve found myself wishing I still had that 1967 Plymouth Belvedere my dad kept for twenty years. But even if I did have it, the government would be conscripting it. Senator Crawford was one of the lawmakers that introduced the legislation to do that.
If there were some way to get to you, I would.
She stopped reading. If there were some way? There was a way, and she knew because she had tried it a month into the stinking outage, and she’d almost gotten herself killed by the murdering maniac who’d offered her a ride in his horse-drawn wagon. When she’d finally managed to get a bike, she could have ridden on to D.C., but she’d chosen instead to head home to warn her family before the killer could get back there. She hadn’t had the courage to launch out again.
If he’d wanted to see her badly enough, he could have made it by bike in just a few days. He still could. The letter continued:
I guess our wedding isn’t going to come off like we planned. But if it’s meant to be, I guess we’ll wait for each other.
Her heart sank, and her jaw dropped. What was he saying? That he wasn’t even going to try to get to her? That the wedding date they’d set for October — just eight weeks away — wasn’t going to happen? No declarations of love, no sweet verbal caresses. Not even a sad romanticism. Just a matter-of-fact mention of their aborted wedding, and their future boiled down to an I guess, if .
Were they even still engaged?
She almost couldn’t read the last line through her tears.
I really miss you. Hope this will all be over soon and we can get together again.
“Get together,” like they were acquaintances hoping to do lunch. Did he even realize how cold that sounded? Or did he care?
As grief stole over her, she read the letter again, looking for something she had missed, something between the lines …
Did he still love her? He said he missed her, but it sure didn’t sound like it.
Her mother knocked on her door and leaned in. “Deni, somebody’ll have to go get water and start boiling it, since they took all we had. Your dad has a shift at the well, and I need to stay here in case Jeff comes home.”
Deni turned her wet face up to
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