Greeting cards are preposterously expensive, given that they are fabricated from a small piece of printed cardboard.
You get an envelope with it, I suppose, but still. You would have to work for almost half an hour in a minimum-wage occupation
in order to earn enough to purchase a nice greeting card and a second-class stamp.
This was a revelation; I’d never actually sent a card to anyone before.
Now that I would be seeing him tonight, however, I had no need to attach a postage stamp.
I could present my humble gift in person. Emily Dickinson’s beautiful poem is called “Wild Nights—Wild Nights!”
and combines two elements of which I am inordinately fond: punctuation, and the theme of finding, at long last, a soul mate.
Lovely. I read the poem over again, licked the glue of the envelope with care—it was deliciously bitter—
and then wrote his name on the front in my best handwriting. I hesitated as I put it back in my shopper.
Was tonight really the best night for poetry? My reluctance was strange; the card was bought and paid for, after all.
I wondered, however, whether I might be better off waiting to see what happened at the gig before taking things to an epistolary level.
There was no need to be reckless. Five o’clock took forever to arrive.
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