The Fool and His Only Desire

The old man had had several lovers over the years, but none of which had he ever had to write letters for. And for that matter, none of his previous lovers failed to show any affection like this one did. Letter after letter he sent to this woman, but he never received one from her. It was difficult to write because he had arthritis in his hands.

All the old man knew was that love was all that mattered, and it was love that occupied his mind for he loved many women and many things. He loved probably until his death which hid and snickered at him in the dark corners of his little bedroom on the third story of the building.

Surrounding his little bedroom were other little bedrooms full of the elderly, just like him. And every once in a while, one of the elderly in one of the little bedrooms disappeared to be replaced by another.

The old man wrote letters to his unresponsive sweetheart because that was all he knew to do.

After two months of writing his letters, the old man received a letter from his sweetheart. It wrote: "Fight for me. M." That was all it said. And so he did. The old man fought for M. But he was tired. He had been tired for a long time. His hands hurt. Looking down on his writing desk, the skin on the old man's face drooped as if it was severely-pulled taffy. It looked as if his face might fall off of his head at any moment. But he continued to write. He kept her letter next to his writing paper.

Occasionally, other letters came for the old man from M. One wrote: "Try harder. M." Another said: "Love me. M." And yet another: "Love me more. M." And that was all they would say, and the old man grew ever more tired.

It was a summer afternoon, a month later, when another letter came from M. It wrote: "I'm outside. Jump for me. M." The old man opened his window and looked down to the expanse of grass that stretched out from all around the base of the building. Since his eyesight was not what it used to be, he was not able to see if anyone was down there waiting for him. He sighed.

It was not long until someone discovered that the old man had disappeared. His window was open, but also his writing paper and pencil were gone. So was the letter from M.

None knew if his tired love was enough. However, those who have gone have no use for paper, pencil, and a letter from their sweetheart.

The old man's little bedroom was later occupied by a sweet old lady who owned a cat who liked eating fruit, especially apples.