Love Letter
Donna Rue, 4/9/2021
Dear Anthony,
I miss you. There was a certain mix of sex appeal, musk and aloofness that you possessed. Every week you gave me hope, stirred urges in me that I thought were long buried and created a burning desire for more.
Your candor had me examine my own values and prejudices. However, your humor made you human and sexy as hell. I’d watch you, then go fuck the man I love, knowing he’d never be you, but that he was close enough.
I remember watching as you grilled the octopus with that old woman, her name lost to me now, and thinking he’s flirting with her. On the shores of Croatia, you had her eating out of the palm of your hand — literally. Wishing it was me, I almost didn’t forgive you.
But you reappeared weeks later in Morocco. The Atlas Mountains, where I’d walked through mud and scaled the steep steps that led to our hostel. There you were, retracing my every movement, walking and talking with the same locals, visiting the same temples and sharing the same Dal Bhat. You made it look effortless. You had me laughing and saying, “Oh, do you remember that? I think it’s the same slaughtered cow.”
I forgave you, again, and joined the journey. Rediscovering why I loved living vicariously through you.
Dearest Anthony, I miss you dearly.