The Letter.

One hundred and sixteen words. 

More of a note than a letter, but in slightly more than a hundred words my life changed forever.

We were made for each other.

We both smoked the same brand, preferred single malt whisky and drove fast cars.

More often than not he took me from behind and afterwards we would smoke and talk.

He never rushed away as some men might; he caressed my skin and told me the things I wanted to hear.

He loved the small of my back, and I loved his powerful thighs.

His smile gave me butterflies in my tummy, and I knew his walk from two hundred metres away.

He smelled like three in one oil and iron filings, and I loved it.

He could go from boiler suit to dinner jacket in the blink of an eye.

He danced like a Latin lover and walked like a man who knew where he was going.

In most situations, I could exude an air of confidence and sophistication, but when he was around, I turned into an elegant puppy.

Heaven was holding his hand and listening to him talk.

No one believed me when I told them that he was a boilermaker welder. They thought that he was too suave to be a tradesman.

I had an expensive education, but he was way better read than I. He could name all the Greek and Roman gods in the same way that most people could name the players in their football team.

He wrote poetry, didn’t own a television and he would make love to me for as long as I needed him to.

Powerful hands held me gently, and although his hands were hard from working with steel, the backs of his hands were as soft as a baby.

I believed that I could hold on to him and maybe that was my mistake.

The words on the page were gentle but precise. 

He no longer loved me.

I’ve had lovers before but never like him.

I had my chance, and I let him slip away.

I can’t think anymore, I need to sleep.

.

Illustration from a painting by Jack Vettriano.

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