Saturday Night Serial

justin and delilah: a posted,
post-modern romance of sorts
__________________________

By Delilah Hornsby


From: Delilah Hornsby [e-mail address witheld]
To: Justin Shortway [e-mail address witheld]
Sent: Saturday, July 31, 1999 9:57 PM
Subject: Missing you…


J,

This is going to be sentimental and sugar-coated but I’m stoned and it’s Sat. night and everyone knows it’s the loneliest night of the week.

Went to dinner tonight with Sara at Café Reggio. It seems the portions are getting smaller, if you can believe it. I had baked manicotti and a lime seltzer. Also, a salad caprese and an espresso.

So what, right? I guess I just miss you enough to think you ought to know. I am so fucking delusional that in the movie of us, which, if you hadn’t noticed, is my reality, you’d be on the plane on Thursday night not back to Salisbury, but to NYC and come knocking on my door in the middle of the night. It’s raining and my buzzer is broken, so you yell up to my window in the dark and the rain with one small duffle bag, because you’re such an efficient packer, not to mention, a man of little needs. I’d awake and run out onto the fire-escape, the rain dappling my silk Valentino night-gown, the baby-pink one, the one that makes my back look like Kim Basinger’s, and scream, "I love you too." This is not going to happen. This is precisely why I am so fucked up because these are the things I think are going to happen and then they don’t.

Maybe I’m just having a bad day…not to diminish the way I feel about you, but the situation is fucking with my head being that it is so damn reminiscent of the scenario two years ago: You were in Europe then, instead of now when you’re driving cross-country (a change made in the re-write.) However, I’m still in New York, alone, listening exclusively to Stevie Wonder’s, Hotter Than July, and Marty Bass won’t leave me alone. It’s two years later and, man, has anything changed? I guess only that the collect calls from you from Europe are now desperate e-mails from me that you probably won’t even get ‘till you get home. Oh, also, I’m fatter, Maggie’s dead, and so is JFK Jr.

When you do get this, your first reaction will be to run screaming out of the house and, second, set fire to your computer. This will be followed by a change of e-mail address, facial hair growth, and clipping of articles out of SELF magazine that you periodically send me about St. John’s Wart and other natural ways to smooth the edges.

On a cheerier note, work is going fantastically. I just got a promotion and am now in charge of the "Alternative Relationship" department. Whatever—I’ll let you know.

So after you receive this, whenever that is, which, by the by, I can’t believe I’m actually sending, please remember to be the kind, honest, gentle, understanding Justin I know and love. I’m not really as crazy as I seem, I just think you’re fantastic. Signed, D. «