“This is not a letter but my arms around you for a brief moment”
John breathes deeply of the salty sea air for a moment, and glances over his shoulder at the living room, where he can still see a spouse or two ambling around, getting ready or bed. Grodin's long-asleep, and Emilie as well. The paper in his hands is fine, elegant in a way the paper they have for general use never is. Trust Rachel to find only the best to send her words--she, like him, knows that the little things matter sometimes more than others. He cracks the seal on the letter and can't stop himself from bringing the envelope to his nose for a moment, hoping to catch a faint scent of perfume, some inkling of this woman so far removed from his own wife--yet so very much the same.
He draws the letter out, unfolding it slowly, carefully, the sea air ruffling the pages. Between a pilot's eyes, the wan light of a waning moon, and the light from inside, the writing is legible, in what he's come to recognize as Rachel's neat, flowing hand.
He draws the letter out, unfolding it slowly, carefully, the sea air ruffling the pages. Between a pilot's eyes, the wan light of a waning moon, and the light from inside, the writing is legible, in what he's come to recognize as Rachel's neat, flowing hand.