I have never been one to be easily irritated. Working in an office cubicle, surrounded by the cacophony that is the clicking of pens, the snaps of staplers, and the grinding sound of bum wheels dragging across the dirty carpet, the time to get annoyed would have long passed. Nevertheless, the woman that inherited the cubicle across from mine got under my skin almost immediately. Her breathing was uneven and oddly quick, her keystrokes rapid and asynchronous, and her chair seemed unable to remain stationary.

I kept my thoughts to myself, until she stood up to peer over the cubicle wall and said, “Stop spying on me.”

I was about to open the bottle of my rage, when she sat back down in her chair, picking up a pen and incessantly clicking it. Over the course of the next few days, similar incidents occurred, in which the woman accused me of spying. I hopelessly tried to block her out.

One day, I heard the barely audible sound of her crying. As far as I knew, this was the first time she had ever done so, and I walked around to her desk to ask if everything was okay. She nodded, but I knew she was lying, so I stayed with her for a while after. During that time, she never once complained about my presence, so the following day, I requested to switch my cubicle with the one next to hers. My wish was granted, and it wasn’t long before I began having simple conversations with the woman. She never mentioned or related anything to her personal life, so I didn’t bring it up.

I began to see the padded wall between us as what it was: a barrier. I decided to disconnect the wall between us from the mini-maze of cubicle dividers. I didn’t receive pushback from any of my co-workers, and as long as my work was as productive as ever, my supervisor turned a blind eye. My hushed-whisper conversations with the lady became longer and occurred more frequently. Then one Friday (I remember this vividly), she showed up to work, and something was wrong. This would be the last day I saw her.

Over our prior conversations, the lady’s mannerisms grew more relaxed and subtle, but today, it was like she had reverted to the version of herself that I had initially met. She was silent and trembling as she carried out her typical duties. Finally, as if to provide a climax to the day, she stood up and left the office. There was still several hours until her shift ended, and even more so until mine, but I got up and followed her anyway. She stopped at her car, a gray Ford sedan, and jabbed a hand into her pocket, searching for her keys.

“Is everything okay?” It was one of those questions that you know the answer to, but feel compelled to ask anyway.

The lady responded by breaking into tears. I didn’t ask for the details, as they seemed nothing more than that. I drove the lady to the house she called her home and, after checking to make sure she was alright (to which she responded with dry-faced sincerity), I left. In hindsight, I should have driven her home in my car, but I was okay walking back to the office. By the time I got there, my shift would have been over as well, and a complaint on my desk, but my job was the last thing on my mind.

I didn’t hear from the lady over the weekend, and she didn’t show up to work the following Monday. Nor did she show up to work the days after. On numerous occasions, someone tried to set the cubicle divider back up, but I protested. It was my way of leaving the door open, should she ever return.

Dear Diary, November 2

We used to pretend we were lovers. Emily and I. I guess that’s kind of obvious. But I’ve just never put it into words before. It’s true, though. We laughed together. We cried together. We never kissed, but since when was that a requirement? I don’t really know. It’s hard to explain.

Emily Wellington was the best person I’ve ever met, probably. Definitely. I met her in 2econd grade. I think we kind of became friends because neither of us had any friends at the time. I don’t know if there was really a reason we didn’t have friends, but if there was, it was a reason we had in common. After we became friends, though, things got so much easier. So much better.

Later in school, when everybody was hooking up and kissing and stuff, it was still just us. We were friends. And then we were lovers, I think. We never talked about what kind of relationship we had. It wasn’t one that we had seen or movies or books or anything. It was different and special and ours. One day I asked if I was her BFF, and she said yes. So I was her Best Friend Forever. And also kind of her Boy-Friend Forever. Kind of.

Nothing changed between us throughout school. Everybody around us broke up and joined cliques and rose to fame and disappeared. But not us. Until now, I guess.

Emily Wellington is going away.

And now things are changing. I don’t really know what to

Dear Mom

November 10th

I decided to stop going to school. Emily Wellington is leaving, and I want to spend as much time with her as I can while she is still here. Dad says it is okay, and I will get over it eventually. I’ll email my teachers about it.

Last night, Dad had a serious conversation after dinner. I had finished eating, but he told me to stay at the table because there was something he wanted to tell me. He said he wanted to talk about growing up. He said that everyone has things in their life that may seem painful at the moment. He was referring to Emily, but he didn’t say her name. He said that these things are simple scars. They hurt, and they leave a mark, but if we were never scarred, we would all look the same. These simple scars make us special. They make us who we are. That’s what he said. I’m not sure if he’s right about it. It definitely hurts. Emily leaving. I wonder if she’s going to your town. I think she might be.

It feels weird to be so confused. Nothing is for sure anymore. I don’t know when I’m going back to school. I’m not sure when Emily will leave. I don’t know when the pain and confusion will end.

I hate to send you sad letters. I won’t send one again. This is the last sad letter I’ll send to you.

love, your son

Mon 11/13/2017 7:34 AM

To: KBrawson@Davenporths.net

CC:

Subject: Absent

Hello Mr. Brawson. I will be absent from school. My best friend is leaving soon. She is absent too. She probably told you that already. Or her mom. Anyway I just wanted to tell you that I would not be at school because I am spending time with my friend while she is still here. I do not know the exact date she is leaving so I do not know how long I will be gone. I will come back to school when she goes away. My dad is okay with me missing school. I will try to do the hw for the class if you send it to me

Mrs. Wellington Friday Nov. 17

329 Pineknoll St.

Davenport, IA 52804

United States of America

To, Mrs. Wellington

I know I have never written a letter to you before, but I thought I should after what happened. You probably don’t know this, but two weeks ago, I wrote something about Emily. Of course you wouldn’t know that. I wrote it in my diary. I realized I never really finished it, but it was supposed to be sort of like a reflection on our past, I guess. I thought I could summarize everything so that I could look at the one piece of paper and come to terms with what I’m leaving behind. What she left behind. What isn’t there anymore.

But now that I look back at what I wrote, I don’t see your daughter. I don’t see anything really. Just words. I can’t hold her back with my words. She is so much more than words. Especially my words.

But there is something I wanted to share with you. It’s kind of awkward, but since I don’t think I’ll ever be seeing you in person again, I think I can write this to you. I wanted to tell you about the time that I almost kissed Emily.

She was in the woods one Saturday. She was taking pictures of animals with one of the waterproof Polaroids you bought for the snorkeling trip that didn’t pan out. I was riding my bike through a beaten path, pretending I was riding a dirt bike. It was just a regular bike, and I crashed into a tree. Emily found me on the ground. She helped me up and pulled my bike out of the dirt, but the tire was busted. So we walked my bike back through the woods together, talking about school and our parents. She said so many nice things about you. It made me ashamed that I didn’t think the same things about my parents.

Eventually we stopped at the edge of the woods. She was going to head back to her house, and me to mine. Before we left the woods, she mentioned making another friend. A boy she was working on a project with. I guess I was jealous. I asked her if I was still her friend. She said I would always be her best friend. Forever. And I wanted to kiss her. And I think she would have let me. But I didn’t.

I like that story. I don’t know if it means anything to you. I don’t know if anything in this letter means anything to you. You don’t have to respond. I’m kind of used to not getting responses.

Anyways. I guess my teachers will expect me to come back to school on Monday. I won’t. It’s too soon, and I’m still hurting. I think everyone is. We all miss your daughter.

Sincerely,

your daughter’s friend

Dear Emily

I don’t know what to say. It’s complicated. Like writing letters to my mom. It’s actually pretty similar, now that I think of it.

After the weeks I spent next to your bed in the Davenport hospital, simply looking at you (sometimes crying a little bit), I finally feel like I’m talking to you. One way or another.

I sent a letter to your mom. I told her about that time where I crashed my bike in the woods. I wanted to kiss you that day. But as you know, I didn’t. Did you want to kiss me too? Did the thought ever cross your mind?

Well, I did kiss you. It took me a while, and a lot more than that, but I did. For two weeks, I sat next to you in the hospital. Your mom would cry, and I would join her, and she would kiss you on the forehead, numerous times, every day. And then one day she left early. And it was just me and you. And I kissed you on the cheek. Did you feel it? Did it mean anything to you? It meant a lot to me. It was my goodnight kiss. The one I didn’t give that evening in the woods, before you left.

Were you waiting for a kiss goodnight? Because the day after I gave you one, you left. And now you are gone.

And I cried and said it wasn’t fair and that I wanted to go with you. And I will go after you, one day. In the meantime, I have one request. Keep my mom company. Tell her that I’m looking forward to seeing her. To seeing both of you. Until then, I guess.

My dad says that this is just a time in my life. An experience. And it might leave a scar. But he said that those scars shape us into the people we become. And I feel it. I feel myself changing, becoming something new. Things are beginning to clear up. And as they become clear, one thing is for certain.

Part of me will never move on. Part of me will, and I already feel that part moving on. But part of me will always stay in this moment, feeling the same pain and loss that I feel now. Every part of me will miss you, though. Always. Until I see you again. And when I do, I hope there will be someone left behind to miss me.

Well… Goodnight. I look forward to the day that I wake up to see you.

your Best Friend Forever

Their hands are so big. Only the men. The lady hands are not so big, but that doesn’t mean I like it more when they touch my face, or pat my head. Some of them rub my head the way my sister rubbed a balloon at my birthday party to make it stick on the wall. Now my hair feels all fuzzy like my jammies when they come out of the dryer. And so many of them want to pick me up and hug me as tight as I hug my Thumbalina doll. Don’t they know I’m a real girl, not pretend? On a different day, Daddy told me he was taking my Thumbalina to the doll hospital when her head stopped moving. He still doesn’t know that when he left, my sister called me stupid for believing him. “Only a baby would believe there is a doll hospital. It’s a broken button that can’t be fixed. He’s gone to buy you at new one at the store.” When he gave me back my Thumbalina, she smelled different, but she looked exactly the same. I liked Daddy’s words better, so I hugged her like I always did, just like I did before he took her away, and then I hugged Daddy for real life, not the way these people are hugging me.

Who are these people anyway? Why do they all look so sad when they look at me? Some of them have tears on their cheeks, even some men. Do they know I am only 6 and grown ups are supposed to act in a nice and happy way around kids? At least that’s what most grown ups I see in our apartment building do, and also the other people, like my teacher and Mrs. Franco, the old lady that comes to watch us after school. But I’m forgetting to tell the whole story. Lately all of them, even Mrs. Franco look at me sad too. Have I been bad? Why don’t they tell me if I’ve been bad? I say my prayers and I don’t cry when it’s bedtime. I listen to the rules at home and at school and I play nice even on days when other kids are bad like Jimmy. He lied and told some kids I had cooties. Mrs. Wintz told Jimmy he would miss recess for being mean and lying, and I felt happy about that. Feeling happy is good, but being around all these sad people is starting to make me feel sad now and scared. I don’t like to be scared. Not even on that special scary day, Halloween, when kids dress up all spooky and say boo. Daddy said we could go out trick or treating when it was dark and I said no thank you. He let my sister go with her friends and she called me a baby before she left and I didn’t even care.

Daddy comes to me now in the crowd, not pushing all of the people out of the way, they just sort of move on their own, still looking sad, even the lady who got lipstick on my cheek. I know because it felt wet so I wiped it with with the back of my hand and saw the red. He takes my hand and leads me over to this very big box. If it is a present for someone, maybe they are lucky today, but when I ask Daddy what is in the box, he looks down at me and he says something wrong. “Say good-bye to your mother.” And he touches the box as if she is in there. Silly Daddy. Mommy is at the hospital. Doesn’t he know only dolls come in a box?

Do you like what you see?

Are you lusting for me?

Am I epitome 

    of your dark fantasy?

How do I make you feel?

To deny what is real

Is it my mind or body 

    that holds the appeal?

How much do you know and

How far will you go

To make me reveal 

    everything I can show?

When will you realize 

This is just a disguise?

Remove the outside and 

    you'll just get more lies

Will you stay here with me

With the death and debris?

How long before you 

    will long to be free?

Can you see what I hide?

How much should I confide?

Will you love me if my flesh 

    is dusty and dried?

If you tasted decay

On my lips every day

How much devotion and 

    trust would it sway?

If you reached for my hair

And realized it was bare

How long would it take you 

    to no longer care?

If my death lingered near

Would it be me that you'd fear?

Would your bright eyes squeeze out 

    even one single tear?

dLynx

https://drive.google.com/open?id=0B8RYIsFg-rZJUkJSNVdVOTl3ZWM

@PhynneBelle

@dLynx