Gina
A few weeks ago, a letter arrived in the mail. The envelope was plain, but the type was neat, the words flowing over the page like a river. The letters were explicit, filled with graphic detail that left me hot and bothered. Soon after, I met Joel at the Franklin Chamber of Commerce dance. It all started with a letter. Then more letters.
I asked Joel somewhere between Tennessee and Texas if he’d been the one to write the letters I kept under my mattress, letters that are now tucked neatly in my suitcase. “Which letters?” he said.
“They’re so erotic,” I said, massaging his thigh. “I can’t get enough of them.”
“Oh,” he told me with a closed smile. “Those.”
He looked like he didn’t want to discuss the matter any further, but we were waiting for Daddy to come back from the men’s room
