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I know I probably sound silly, but I felt like I knew you as I read it.
The sentence replays in my mind, the same way it has ever since I read it. She doesn’t sound silly at all.
It makes sense to feel like you know a writer when you read their work.
What doesn’t make sense is thinking she’s mine – and only mine – for the rest of our lives, all based on a letter, without even knowing what she looks like. I know if I told anyone about these feelings bubbling up inside of me, a whole torrent of them, they’d tell me I need help. They’d tell me I’m insane.
But I can’t fight it, my heart pounding like it’s trying to spur me into action. My balls are so damn heavy, unbelievably heavy like there’s ten times as much seed in them as usual.
This is fucking primal.
It’s like all that matters, all that exists is the thought of finding this woman and putting my baby inside of her.
How, how, fucking how can that be true?
Before I’ve made the conscious decision to do so, I’ve climbed from the car and am walking across the street, toward the rundown apartment building. My hands tighten into fists at my sides as I get closer to the young men, the smell of weed thick in the air.
I don’t give a damn what drugs people want to use in their own homes. But the sight of them sitting on cinder blocks and fold-out chairs right outside my woman’s apartment building – where she’ll inevitably have to walk by – makes me want to dismantle all of them right now.
I warn myself to be careful.
I’ve never been an overly violent person, but sometimes it’s like there’s this star inside of me, dormant and restful. Except every now and then it will flare to life and I’ll end up in a situation like before with that perv.
Stalking past them, I’m relieved when they make the smart choice and don’t say a damn thing. One of them is in the way of the door, but I don’t slow down, just keep walking forward until he has no choice but to step out of the way.
The elevator is busted – because of course, it is – so I take the stairs three at a time.
She wrote her apartment number on the return address, so I go to the third floor and stalk down the hallway, even as my instincts tell me to stop, to stop right now.
Soon I’m standing right outside her door, the beast inside of me willing me to break it down and rush in there. Grab her and bend her over the nearest piece of furniture, tearing down her pants to reveal her ass, her pussy, and then fucking her hard, savagely, her body quaking with the force.
Even if I don’t know what she looks like, my body tightens with the need to possess her, my Maddison, the woman I only know through her words.
But her words are enough to let me know she’s the woman for me.
Forever.
I’m about to knock when there’s movement behind the door, the sound of footsteps approaching.
I turn and quickly stride to the other end of the hall, taking out my phone and pretending to scroll through it.
As a writer, I spend a fair amount of time people watching, and one thing I’ve noticed is that no one ever questions what somebody is doing if they’re staring at their phone. But I can’t help but sneak a glance up when I hear the door open and the footsteps walk into the hallway.
And…
A feeling of deflation hits me.
The woman has black hair down to her shoulders, with a thin build and sharp cheekbones.
All the need, the primal passion, the certainty I need to make this woman mine, it disappears.
It’s not that she’s unattractive. It’s that, as I sneak glances at her, I find myself not wanting to think of her like that at all.
She does nothing to me, stirs no carnal impulses.
I feel flat, all the air sucked out of me, as disappointment and disbelief battle inside of me.
I felt so damn certain I was going to feel something, that the letter wasn’t the end of it.
But there she is, right there, walking down the hallway…
And nothing, I feel nothing. It’s like all the compulsion that rose inside of me has been stolen away, stomped on, destroyed.
I walk down the other end of the hallway, staring out of the window, watching as the woman walks down the street, shouldering her handbag. I try to force myself to feel something for her, the same overwhelming heat I felt when I read her letter.
But I’m empty, as empty as I’ve been ever since I was a kid on the ugly sea – the sea which gave me my first novel, my first heartache, and shattered something inside of me.
