Objects In The Distance Appear Blue
Annie used to write love letters. She’d sit – in a café, in a park, a bus stop, a wine bar – look around for some stranger close by, and write them a love letter, in the same way an artist might do a sketch.
She kept them, filed away in a document box, like the ones the police on TV shows use to keep case files in. You could pick any letter from the collection, read it to her, and she’d be able to describe the person for whom she’d written it down to the last detail. She’d tell you where she was, what they were wearing that day, and how the weather had been. She’d tell you the story of how they’d met, the meals they shared, and what he was like as a lover. She’d tell you, almost with a tear in her eye, how he’d broken her heart, or cheated on her, or left one day and never returned. She’d tell you all these stories and you’d think they might be true.
Many months after first meeting her, I wondered if she’d written me a letter once. I’d seen her in the café many times before we spoke. I thought perhaps that she’d written her feelings for me then, seeing me across the way; that she’d given me a name and a history, and then written down in words what was in her heart. I wondered how close to mine the life Annie created for me had been. What name she had given me, if I had hurt her as I left, or if she had left me. I yearned to know who she thought I was before we met.
Many dozens – hundreds – of these letters she had written to men she never knew; another thing she’d left behind. Pieces of her heart, given away freely, for only a moment, and kept in a box, in a cupboard, in a house, that even now sometimes gave me moments of her scent.
And on the front of the box, in thick black marker that had faded near to grey, she’d written Stone Faces, but she never told me why.
Matthew Sonter
Hi Andrew,
I enjoyed the emotion expressed in this piece by the writer, wondering at the imaginary version of himself she had created. You know, before he had to get involved in real life and burst the bubble.
Now I’m thinking about it!
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Nicolas Papaconstantinou
Absolutely beautiful piece. Small and perfectly formed, and one to think about.
You’re brilliant at creating these odd and intriguing women, Mr Cheverton. One might almost think you spent most of your time thinking about them…
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Andrew Cheverton
Thank you – although this is the same woman as last time, again…
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Nicolas Papaconstantinou
It’s not Cookie, is it? It sounded a bit like her, but after you killed her off in a previous story, I’m now confused…
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Andrew Cheverton
It is Cookie, whose name is Annie (this story here is told by her husband, the narrator of that story in which she died). And she’s also the girl in the jumper who you crushed on too. It’s like Weird Science – I’m making her for you! ;o)
And just because she’s dead, doesn’t mean she doesn’t have stories…
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Nicolas Papaconstantinou
Of course!
I think, if I went back and reread the other pieces, I’d already have known that she was Annie, but, you know, after a year and a half, we’ve invented a lot of characters… I get confused!
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