Sincerely Over It

Every morning I leave my apartment, lock the door behind me, and trot down the stairs until I land on a concrete slab. I round my building, and depending on the shoes I’m wearing, I either take the sidewalk or cut through the grass. My Jeep is on the opposite side of my building and I usually have to walk about thirty steps from my front door to reach the driver’s side handle. On my stroll through grass or sidewalk, my eyes look for the windshield of my car. And I don’t break my stare until I can establish whether or not there’s a piece of paper under the windshield wiper. Once I know that there isn’t a note, I’m free to look anywhere and my mind to return to un-paranoia.

One of my exboyfriends has a habit of leaving notes on my car. It started when we were dating. I would be in a University Program Council meeting and unable to accept his calls for several hours, and when I’d return to my car in the evening, there’d be a note. The messages were always sugary and never consisted of more than five or so words. A year has passed since our break-up and he still leaves little reminders that he’s alive. The last note said “Cross your heart. Cross it!” and ended with a heart and his signature. He wrote this message on back of a Gulf Coast Bank statement, and on the reverse, he’d scratched out his account information with a ballpoint pen. Which was really charming.

I wish I’d saved some of his notes from break-up box hell. I’d make a collage of his sweet poetry and mail it back to him with my own love letter. I’d write the words in black ink on simple, wide ruled paper and each letter would be as big as my middle finger. And then when he’d open the FedEx box and sift through the styrofoam packaging peanuts, and he’d find my note taped to a framed mosaic of paper-mache heartbeats. And the note would read,

“Write me off. Sincerely over it.”

And then the camera would cut to me walking in slow motion down a busy Manhattan sidewalk while my boobs and hair leisurely bounce and “The Blower’s Daughter” plays in the background. And I wouldn’t look behind me. Just right into the camera. Fade to black. Roll credits.