A Postcard

Dear Marian,
Buenos Aires reminds me of Depot Bay--the seafood restaurants, the fishing fleet, the sidewalks filled with vendors.

We have much to talk about.

This morning, the salt spray woke me up from my dream about you. I was riding you like a seahorse. You were galloping me around the ocean floor.

Do you miss me? Do you remember the day I left you?

It was two Tuesdays ago, and you were sitting at your desk, paying bills. We were done with fighting by then, I think. You had already crumbled my heart like a stale cookie. I think the moment you stopped listening to me was the afternoon before, when Carla called you, when Carla betrayed me.

I can hardly breathe in Buenos Aires, air perfumed with cigarette smoke and anorexic Argentinian women. I like my women like you, Marian, solidly placed on the ground, unafraid of food.

My uncle sends his greetings, asks me why you are not travelling with me. He thinks a wife and husband should be together. I tell him you hae a visa problem. I hope it will make him dislike you, but it only seems to intrigue him more.

Damn you, you are an intriguing woman, but your intrigue has destroyed me. I do not wish my best to you. I wish us to share the misery equally, as we have done with everything else.

Tomas