Six ~ Reach

Dear B-----,

       I know campus mailboxes tend to become a bit lonely, so I thought I'd drop you a note.

       You... would absolutely hate it out here, there's nothing and it's great. I know you think things are pretty sparse at home, but out here there aren't cows for company, just threes and fields of grapes.

       The grapes seemed so strange at first, this far North...but the lake keeps the temperatures a bit more moderated - that, you'd like.

       The house I'm in is a mile or so outside of town, within easy biking distance of the campus. It's very old, the paint's a little worn in places, but the owners take good care of it. I poked around the other day - it was raining anyway - and I found all sorts of interesting corners to investigate.

       At the end of a hallway upstairs there is actually a drop-down stair to the attic, it's great. The musty smell of possessions long-forgotten spills down the steps to the bare wooden floor when the trapdoor is open. The only light in the space is sunlight filtered through a time-encrusted round window, only big enough to frame a peering face, as the ceiling slants down around you. Boxes line the walls, scattered stacks shakily standing amidst an old bed frame, a few discarded lamps, a coat rack whose empty arms reach only the airy fabric of spiders' threads. The floorboards are dark with age, far rougher than those in the house proper.

       Though Mrs. R----- told me I was welcome to nose into whatever I'd like (barely a week, but already I'd family to her and her husband, they're such sweet, warm people - that, and I share her love of gardening), but I want to ask before I start digging through old boxes of their things. A few newspapers, yellowed with age and shaded by mildew, hung over the edges of some boxes - and looked old enough to promise interesting contents.

       I'm sure you would instantly proclaim it old and scary, fearing ghosts and aged derelicts behind everything in shadow, but I've a hunch I'm going to be spending a fair bit of time up there, you know how I love old places. (It's hard to explain why though... such a sense of time and history, the lingering presences of so many people and things they once touched...)

       I doubt even you could entirely slag off the town itself - it may be small, and contain little more than the usual restaurants, hair salons and bars, but it's very nicely kept. The buildings are mostly old brick, apartments on the floors above the stores; finely sculpted fountains in the middle of a green town square, the church windows filled with intricate stained glass.

       Concerts will be starting up on campus soon - there are always some at the bars, but I'd rather avoid that if possible. I should go out and meet people, but being around drunken crowds isn't going to be conducive to little me making friends.

       Getting groped, yes; making good friends, no. There are days a fuck-buddy would be nice, but--- no.

       Oh stop your protests about your virgin eyes, any images I give you are far less subversive in nature than all the "reality" shows you watch. There is far more of the perverse in manipulation for monetary gain than there is in sexuality.

       (And you know me better than to think I'd ever go out looking for a quick fuck - there's just no way.)

       Not much to tell you really. Still no Internet access, but I'd doing fine without it for the most part. I miss my chats with M-----, but we have letters and phone calls, and we're used to long distances between us, what with her living all the way in N-----. I miss all the rest of you as well, of course, and you simply must stop by when you're in the area, dear. I'm afraid my resources limit the sort of welcome party I can give you, but...

       I can promise you a really giant tackle of a hug.