Dearest Rosie Rose,
A rose by any other name would smell as sweet. Or not. I
actually don’t like the smell of roses, you know that? Honestly, you smell
better than the stupid flowers. And I know that you’re named after them and
everything, but hey, you don’t like them much either.
Life is boring. Nothing interesting to report.
I’ve been saving up for the past year or so and I think by
the end of May, I might finally be able to go apartment hunting, get my own
place. I’ve actually got my eye on this little loft I found a little ways off
Heatherdale Avenue, not too far from the uni. It’s a bit pricey, but it’s kind
of like what we mapped out together, remember? Two bedrooms, one bathroom, nice
little kitchenette to burn crumpets in… And you know the best part? It’s higher
than most of the streetlights, so there’s actually a chance of seeing some
stars out the skylight window.
Nice, eh? I made some enquiries with the bloke who owns it.
Seemed like a nice guy; his wife makes great brownies. You’d love her. This
just might be it, Rosie Rose. It’d be pretty nice, wouldn’t it? A place to call
my own. Or our own, if you want. I mean, you’re joining NYU for the spring
semester, so you wouldn’t have to stay in the dorms if you didn’t want to. Or
you could, if you want. I hear the girl’s dorms are nice; better bathrooms than
the boys’ anyway. But it’s just a thought. I dunno.
Anyway, write me back and do it properly. Imagine us saving
these up to show to prospective great grandchildren. Not that I’m suggesting,
but… I’m going to shut up now. Love you. Miss you. RSVP.
Frog’s legs,
John
PS. You wouldn’t happen to know where my Indiana Jones
fedora is, would you?
Dear John,
I have got to get a proper nickname for you, better than
Indy. God knows you’ve got enough ego as you are without me comparing you to
Harrison Ford. Starting a letter with ‘dear John’ sounds so bloody wrong when
I’m writing to you. Bah humbug.
The apartment sounds like a dream. Does it really look like
our drawings? You think you’ll be able to afford it? I mean, I’d love to pitch
in for it; I’ve got a good amount saved besides my own college fund. I’ve cut
down on the books shopping a bit and restricted myself to the library, so my
bank balance is not depleting so much. I’ll help you get it; it sounds too good
to lose. Send me pictures if you can!
And I suppose if I’m going to help you buy it, it only makes
sense for me to also enjoy the place. It’s logical. Kind of equivalent
exchange. I mean, I think I could put up with you every day as long as you wash
your own socks ansd make those chocolate chip pancakes on Fridays. It’ll be
easier for me to raid your wardrobe. It might be good for us if there are
prospective great grandchildren in the equation. It just won’t be easy
convincing Uncle Connor and Auntie Ailie, especially Auntie Ailie. I hope she
doesn’t slap you too hard for suggesting it.
Otherwise, life is dull. I miss you too, you bugger. I know
we could set up Skype chats, but this is nicer. Old fashioned. Like you said,
something for the great grandchildren.
Anyhoo, nothing else really. I love you.
Frog’s legs,
Rose
PS. If you want your fedora back, a ransom of a lightsaber
and a sonic screwdriver must be paid. Do you accept?
