The second week of November I came home from the library to discover an envelope on my pillow. At first I thought someone had mailed me a tardy condolence card, but Bryan always left mail for me on the foyer table, and the piece in question was lacking both a stamp and an address. Curious, I picked up the mystery envelope and inserted my finger underneath the flap—only to remember Bryan telling me something at breakfast. Something about how Bob would be coming over to the apartment that night while I was at the library, to pick Bryan up for a basketball game.
My finger froze in place.
It couldn’t be. There had been no letters, no glass rocks, no nothing since my first week at Bob’s apartment. But no one else was in the habit of leaving unmarked envelopes on my pillow, and Bob, Tim's favorite messenger, had come to the apartment that night. Who else could it be from?
Cautiously I opened the envelope. As I withdrew the note-sized piece of paper, sparsely dotted with handwriting that I had come to know better than my own, I could feel my stomach seize up. What if the few words on the page said something like I hate you, or Just so you know, I never loved you after all? What if he truly were gone forever? Bryan had taken all of my pills away. I would have to settle for a kitchen knife this time. Mentally composing the letter I would leave for Bryan, I lowered my eyes to read the two sentences on the page:
Saturday, 8:00 p.m. It’s been long enough.
I flipped the piece of paper over. On the other side was the fragment of a math proof.
My eyes filling with tears, I went to my closet. I needed to find something good to wear. I was going to see Tim—on Saturday, his 22nd birthday.