Re: sunday night
———- Forwarded message ———-
From: Angela Tavares <email@example.com>
Date: Tue, Dec 9, 2008 at 3:12 AM
Subject: Re: sunday night
To: George A—— <GA——@gmail.com>
I’m sorry about the fence. I know I’ve seen you out in your yard a couple times this past week, your grass is so green already, with the leaves and brush left from endless winter storms already collected, barreled, and burned, but I haven’t had the courage to talk to you face to face. I’m someone who’s comfortable with hiding behind words.
And the music you’re hearing is mine. At this volume, it fills the house, from my basement up through my chimney, which is why I think I’ve caught you looking out your bathroom window at me. You did just 10 minutes ago. The yellow tiles you have there are nice. I’ve wondered if they’re authentic to the house. They look that way. I like the music loud because then I don’t feel so alone. I miss my dogs. They were good friends, and I know you liked them, too. They would get so excited when you’d call them by name from your deck, looking out over my fence when it was still standing. I can’t get another because the last one was the worst. She looked me right in the eye the whole time and I had to hold her still because she was resisting. Her muscles tensed against my body but she never turned her head away. She wanted me to watch her die, not miss a thing. She was such a little bitch and upset the whole balance of the house, the other two hated her. And I did watch the whole thing just like she wanted and didn’t leave until the doctor said she’d call me a cab or did I have a family member. I sat in my car for hours before I could drive.
I like being alone with this music, with the refrigerator and the big TV. It’s ugly music, but I identify. When I walk through my house, I feel like I’m in a horror film. I keep the lights off, except for in the den. I like the excitement of every turn I take possibly being my last.
I’m writing to tell you I’m sorry about the fence. There has been lots of women in and out of the house. I feel like all the neighbors notice, but I can’t apologize to everyone. How would I apologize to families so young? It wouldn’t come out right. I only realized the number of women was getting high when I started losing track of names. What happened was that I called Meghan Michaela, then I realized I didn’t even know a Michaela, don’t know how the name even came to me so it must have been something from the TV. By the time I processed all this she was already upset. I don’t even really know her, but I know at least that she’s using me. Everyone tells me this, all my friends. I don’t have a lot, but they tell me this. I like dogs way more. I am single and own a house and have a good job. These are my good traits. These are the ones that make my mother happy. Every time someone tells me my good traits, I think that sometimes there aren’t enough ways in this world to commit suicide. I would do it in the bathtub, though, which is how most women do. Wrists to the creases of my elbows and wait it out. She is using you, they say. They all are. But, okay, that’s fine because I’m using them, too. There is a Michaela, actually, now that I think about it. She’s the blonde one, if you remember. They use me for drugs and sex, a place to stay. I use them for more drugs and a second presence in the house. I try to use only a certain type of junkie, but it’s sort of gotten out of control lately. This is my fault.
I didn’t know your nephew was in the backyard. If I had, I would have stopped her. I’m sorry we scared your sister and that she was so upset.
I got your e-mail address from Facebook. You should probably change your security settings if this e-mail troubles or surprises you.
I will call someone to fix the fence and please send me an e-mail reply with all I owe you for what was damaged on your side.