Day five: letters
The little Au
Advent Calendar: Day five: letters
slashfairy
~~
There are three places to pick up mail. Four, if you count the house in Venice Beach, but they're all there so rarely... Five, if you count Idaho. Six, if London. But again, so rarely there. Never in Aotearoa- That part of Karl's life is over, though he supposes, sometimes, that in Sliding Doors he'd be there, still with Nat, Hunter's dad, maybe have another child- but he's not, he's here. So he goes to the agency, picks up what's there -never as much as Vig's, as Orli's, and it stings both his vanity and his pride, and makes him laugh; to the post office, for the things too big to deliver to the box at home; and the box at the end of the road where they've enlarged a spot for the postal truck to turn around after their place, the last house on the beach side of the bluff road.
He lets the dogs out of the Jeep, being sure the gate's closed to the large fenced sandy-soiled scrub-and-crabgrass California coastal yard, and carries in the huge pile of mail garnered from the three places. A letter from Nat, undoubtedly with pictures of Hunter, and a moment of regret for each one. Letters from various old friends in New Zealand: Craig, always, he never forgets the holidays, and a few from Xena, from Shortland Street. A book he'd ordered, a couple of magazines. Some things from Spain for Viggo, from the Caymans for Orli, from New Mexico and Vancouver for him. A small box in Vig's pictorial hand that he sets aside, then sorts the rest into groups, looking for one in particular, but it's not there.
He'd not really expected it: In Orli's eyes he'll always be the interloper, second best, and he accepts that, though he doesn't want to. It stings his vanity and his pride, too: his vanity, because he wants Orli to love him for himself, and his pride, because he didn't mean to steal Viggo, ever... just wanted to participate, to be part of Viggo's life. But he searches again for the envelope he's wanting to expect, the one in the looping hand of a busy man who'd rather do anything than write because it comes so hard to him, so that when he does, it's as precious as the words of someone who loves writing, because it's given with a whole heart.
He'd not expected it, but he'll keep looking, he senses, as he finishes his tinnie of beer gotten while tossing out the trash mail. He sets the tin down on the counter, pulls his leather carry-bag over, and pulls out a blank book, an artist's drawing book, covered in light tan leather embossed with blue and green leaves, and a box of pencils in shades of blacks and greys. He takes them to his office, separate from their studio space, and smiles as he reaches for the scissors, tape, and paper set aside only that morning. He wraps dexterously, nothing wasted, his years on his uncle's farm showing in the way he folds and tapes and ties, sharp, clean, crisp. He's more of an artist than he gives himself credit for, his vanity and his pride not letting him see what they know: every inch of the house has been touched by his hands with the same love with which he touches them. He smiles at a photo of Orli on his desk, pirate-hair'd and smiling back, brown eyes sparkling not for the cameras, or because of them, but because he's so full of living it shines out of him without his even knowing it.
That was taken awhile ago, Karl thinks to himself as he puts the now doubly-wrapped parcel in his bag for a morning drop-off in the post office. I wish I'd hear from him, he says to the dogs as they (finally) get to scramble down the bluff for an evening's foggy salty sandy walk along the surf, the blood of the planet beating time along with Karl's as he holds Orlando in his heart.
Day six
Advent Calendar: Day five: letters
slashfairy
~~
There are three places to pick up mail. Four, if you count the house in Venice Beach, but they're all there so rarely... Five, if you count Idaho. Six, if London. But again, so rarely there. Never in Aotearoa- That part of Karl's life is over, though he supposes, sometimes, that in Sliding Doors he'd be there, still with Nat, Hunter's dad, maybe have another child- but he's not, he's here. So he goes to the agency, picks up what's there -never as much as Vig's, as Orli's, and it stings both his vanity and his pride, and makes him laugh; to the post office, for the things too big to deliver to the box at home; and the box at the end of the road where they've enlarged a spot for the postal truck to turn around after their place, the last house on the beach side of the bluff road.
He lets the dogs out of the Jeep, being sure the gate's closed to the large fenced sandy-soiled scrub-and-crabgrass California coastal yard, and carries in the huge pile of mail garnered from the three places. A letter from Nat, undoubtedly with pictures of Hunter, and a moment of regret for each one. Letters from various old friends in New Zealand: Craig, always, he never forgets the holidays, and a few from Xena, from Shortland Street. A book he'd ordered, a couple of magazines. Some things from Spain for Viggo, from the Caymans for Orli, from New Mexico and Vancouver for him. A small box in Vig's pictorial hand that he sets aside, then sorts the rest into groups, looking for one in particular, but it's not there.
He'd not really expected it: In Orli's eyes he'll always be the interloper, second best, and he accepts that, though he doesn't want to. It stings his vanity and his pride, too: his vanity, because he wants Orli to love him for himself, and his pride, because he didn't mean to steal Viggo, ever... just wanted to participate, to be part of Viggo's life. But he searches again for the envelope he's wanting to expect, the one in the looping hand of a busy man who'd rather do anything than write because it comes so hard to him, so that when he does, it's as precious as the words of someone who loves writing, because it's given with a whole heart.
He'd not expected it, but he'll keep looking, he senses, as he finishes his tinnie of beer gotten while tossing out the trash mail. He sets the tin down on the counter, pulls his leather carry-bag over, and pulls out a blank book, an artist's drawing book, covered in light tan leather embossed with blue and green leaves, and a box of pencils in shades of blacks and greys. He takes them to his office, separate from their studio space, and smiles as he reaches for the scissors, tape, and paper set aside only that morning. He wraps dexterously, nothing wasted, his years on his uncle's farm showing in the way he folds and tapes and ties, sharp, clean, crisp. He's more of an artist than he gives himself credit for, his vanity and his pride not letting him see what they know: every inch of the house has been touched by his hands with the same love with which he touches them. He smiles at a photo of Orli on his desk, pirate-hair'd and smiling back, brown eyes sparkling not for the cameras, or because of them, but because he's so full of living it shines out of him without his even knowing it.
That was taken awhile ago, Karl thinks to himself as he puts the now doubly-wrapped parcel in his bag for a morning drop-off in the post office. I wish I'd hear from him, he says to the dogs as they (finally) get to scramble down the bluff for an evening's foggy salty sandy walk along the surf, the blood of the planet beating time along with Karl's as he holds Orlando in his heart.
Day six