Page 46 of The Love Interest
Your handwriting is almost as terrible as your mood swings, and it would have been my instinct to destroy that letter even if you hadn’t ordered me to.
If you show me your work in progress, Iwillcritique it.
I am currently still too infuriated to write about all the other feelings I have for you.
But I am open to this. Expect another letter soon.
Your problem and your solution,
Me
P.S. Your nickname for the past month or so has been Assface. If that is how you’d like me to address you, so be it.
P.P.S. I still think an overpaid, overrated, overly handsome best-selling author of thrillers has no business teaching creative writing at a prestigious New York university.
P.P.P.S. To my great horror, I really wanted you to push me up against that door and kiss my angry face too. I understand now that your appalling way of treating me in class has been overcompensation, but I don’t forgive you for it. I’ll kiss you again anyway. One day.
* * *
Dear Person Formerly Known as Assface,
Okay, I like this idea.
The letter writing, I mean. It’s very historical romance—are you quite sure you approve?
Don’t answer that. I want to like this, and I want to like you.
I’m not going to call you Assface anymore. Unless, of course, you start behaving like an assface again. Then I’ll have no choice but to refer to you as Assface.
I don’t like being mad in general, and I don’t like being mad atyouin particular.
Actually, that’s not true. I really, thoroughly enjoyed being mad at you for nearly a month. For multiple reasons. But it has gone on too long. Our situation, your behavior, and my anger toward you has been very troublesome for certain lady parts. And while it may have done sensational things for my book and for my yoni (don’t ask), it is seriously messing up my heart chakra.
I also like the idea of burning these letters when we’re done reading them. I know you’re just being cautious, but there’s something ritualistic and magical about setting fire to something that’s important to you. Like, the fire transmutes the words from the paper to tattoos on your heart. Or something. While I won’t assume that the words of my letters will find their way onto or into your icy black heart, I don’t mind you knowing that there’s a good chance yours will be metaphorically etched onto mine. For creative inspiration purposes. Maybe I’ll have William write letters to Lucy in my very interesting and important novel…
I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but my work in progress has been somewhat influenced by you (or my response to you, I suppose). I can’t say that it has even been a conscious thing. But regardless of how things have turned out, I’m still glad I met you. You have, in fact, been offering inspiration and constructive criticism on my Regency romance without even trying. How delightfully ironic!
Please do send me your work in progress. I’m very curious about it. I apologize for calling you an overpaid, overrated author of thrillers. And you actually are a good creative writing teacher. I think. I have no standards by which to compare you with. I do, however, stand by my assertion that you are overly handsome. Please give me a break with the handsomeness, thanks.
I saw you in Greenwich Village earlier today, from afar. You looked sad. You just walk around New York with sad eyes and a frowny face every day and night, don’t you? What would it take to make you smile, I wonder? Or are you afraid you’ll get wrinkles because you’re so old? Your heart chakra could use some major realignment too. I wish I could get my hands on it.
I really wish you could get your hands on every part of me. I don’t think I can wait until next year. But please do tell me what you have in mind.
I will tell you that if you had pushed me up against the door in your office and kissed me, I would have bitten your lower lip. After you’d jerked your head back in surprise, I would have grabbed your face and kissed you hard and sucked on your tongue until you groaned. I’d imagine your hands would have gripped my hips like they did when I was straddling you on that bench. I would hope so, anyway, because I really liked it when you did that. I’d also like to think that while kissing me deeply, your hands would slide all the way up the sides of my waist. From the hips to my ribcage. And then one of your hands would find its way over to my obscenely erect nipple while you slipped the other hand between my legs. I would have squeezed my thighs around your hand because I was so tense and wet, I desperately needed to feel something there against my throbbing clit. And let’s face it, I would have grabbed that big bulge in the front of your pants. Because that’s just the kind of girl I am.
What kind of man are you? What would have happened next?
Your partner in mildly erotic epistolary adventures,
Me
* * *
Dear F,
You get an A + for adult letter writing. As a professor, I encourage you to include an epistolary section in your novel. I would also like to remind you (although I am sure it’s unnecessary to do so) that we must refrain from talking like this with each other in public. Not until May. As an avid reader, I wholeheartedly encourage you to continue writing me letters like the one I have just received. Tomeonly. Feel free to get even more detailed in your descriptions of what you would have done to me or what you would like to hypothetically do to me.
On another completely different note—I have to give my seven-year-old niece credit for the idea of writing letters and then making them disappear. While she of the pure and innocent heart had envisioned the paper magically transforming to butterflies and the words being etched onto their wings, I find it interesting that you had a similar idea. I’ll let you have the letter-writing thing for your book. It doesn’t really work for mine, and my niece has no interest in using it. She is far too clever to waste her considerable imagination on a writing career.
