By: Jehangir Saleh
Written: July  8, 2005

Dear Lindsay,

You wrote a story in your last letter, so I want to make my letter a story as well. All stories are true.

“I want to be in love”, she said. “I am scared. I do not know what love is. All I know is that I want it.”
She thought she was in love with him (even though she didn’t know what love was). He was just like her. Closing his eyes, he thought about her sharing his bed, misunderstandings in art galleries, uncomfortable pauses and a brief, gentle kiss. He was just like her. He too often put himself in a kind of self-inflicted internal isolation where the walls scream and everyone’s lives were suddenly.
“You’re lucky”, she said. “You have someone”.
I do, he thought? Who?
“I want to be in love” she repeated.
But she was. In love with this image of herself as the melancholic princess who believes firmly that true love is utterly impossible, and yet everyday comes to her window and watches princes go by on the street. Many sighs. She was in love with him, but he too was a sort of princess, in the next castle, sighing just as she.

I want you to touch me, he said. There was an awkward pause. I don’t think I can, she replied. He put his hand on her shoulder. She closed her eyes. I am touching you, she whispered. I am touching your body with my mind.
He looked at her. She had built a wall of words to protect her. It prevented him from touching her back. Love. Love. Love. Love. Love. Love. Love. These words surrounded her. The light of his touch was being blocked by what she thought was love.

I want someone to love, she said.
No you don’t.
Of course I do. It’s all I want. I would give up everything.
Would you give up yourself?
What?
Would you give up yourself for someone to love? She knew this question didn’t make sense yet she thought she understood it. I use to say that all the time, he said.
That you’d wanted someone to love?
Yes.
And now that you have someone?
I’m finally starting to find myself. I always had someone to love. I was blind. And when you love someone, then what? He asked. Love is fundamentally good. But it occurs only in moments, so waiting and precious. What will you do while you wait?

There was a paused. They waited together. But as individuals.

Why do you want to be with me, she asked.
I want those moments, he said. Those moments without judgement, that somehow seem so much more important than war or time.
Do you want to touch my body, she asked.
That’s secondary. But yes, I do. Why do you want to be with me?
I want to be loved.
You already are.
I want to be touched.
I can touch you.
I can’t…
He closed his eyes, very slowly reached out his hand and felt for a gap between the words of LOVE. He touched the end of her nose. At first she cried silently a cry of pain. But as he began to rub her nose she started to moan.

On paper, everything looked so easy, she thought.
It’s ok, he said. (He could sense what she was thinking)
Our moment exists as a story. Even if my hand never feels your nose, I have still touched you. And you have touched me.

A story is as real as it might as well ever be.

Your companion and fellow victim in love,
Jehangir

PS. I didn’t do much editing, so please forgive. I really hope you’re doing well.