As the first light of dawn slowly began to seep through the crack in the curtains, he curled the pen around the last flick of his signature, and placed it upon the desk. Carefully, he stood, making sure with his movement not to disturb the leaves of paper that he left to blanket the desk. He crossed to the far wall and flicked the light switch off. Since he was still awake at this hour, he would appreciate the dawn properly as the rising sun slowly granted him more of its favour, and shone down to inspect the inked words that graced his pages. Pulling open the thick curtains, he gazed momentarily at a scene that was nothing new, save perhaps for the emptiness of the early morning, which he rarely saw. It was the same garden, and the same road, the same light of the same star that had streamed in all the years of his life. Yet that did not mean it held no beauty, and he therefore gazed. For a moment. He'd been writing all night, and he needed a moment's rest. One can't rush a letter.
He returned to his writing desk, and selected an envelope from the neat bundles that were sorted by size and shape and colour. The tidy writing desk was, it seemed, a little contrary to the rest of the house. He had never found himself to be a particularly organised man, but writing was different. If he was going to write a letter, then he was damned well going to do it properly. Perhaps the one extra thing he might have done to really go the extra mile would have been to use a fountain pen rather than his ballpoint, but he had never been able to abide the things. He found that they all too often lived up to their name. And so he used a ballpoint, but at least it wasn't any ballpoint, not some cheap plastic ballpoint that came in packs of twenty four, and ran out so quickly it seemed as though they were eager the other twenty three should have their fair share of the action. Oh no, it was a nice ballpoint, one of the ones that is exactly the same as its cheap plastic kindred, but has a shiny casing, and makes you feel respectable. A letter is all the better for being written with a pen that makes you feel like it shows your depth of care.
Laying the envelope on the table and raising the pen in his hand once more, he slowly printed the address on its fore. He was perhaps overly modest on the quality of his handwriting, and wouldn't want some beleaguered postal worker struggling to decipher the intended destination of this missive. Printing for the address, handwriting for the addressee. After all, surely the bond of friendship is enough to unravel the most tangled scrawl? He then turned to where the leaves of freshly ink-decorated paper lay, slightly curling at the edges where they'd been resting. He led himself along the paper line, bringing each new leaf to a pile. He straightened the pile, and stroked them flat, then, moistening the tip of his finger, counted the pages. He wouldn't bother reading them again - he knew what he'd written, and if he'd made a mistake it was too late to change it now. Better a crime against grammar or spelling than the shameful scribble of correction; even the slightly abashed ruled line that was still undeniably an admission of guilt. If there was an error among the many pages, he would let it be despatched with proud ignorance of any failing. But he counted them, because he knew what he'd written and how much, and he had to be sure it was all there. One... two... three... he frowned where the corner of a page had sustained a mild tear, but in the spirit of perfection, pretended he had not seen it. Seven... eight... it was all there.
He inspected his signature once more on the last page. He liked to judge the quality of his signature, as one can never reproduce the exact same design. This was about average, he decided, not his most elegant example, but certainly no scrawl to blush at. He realigned the pages, then folded them and placed them inside the addressed envelope. He ran the two sides of the seal over his tongue, then firmly pressed them down, imprisoning and protecting his night's work until its new owner set the words free. From a shelf on the writing desk, he pulled a stamp book, and affixed the relevant little square precisely in the corner. The masterpiece that was the letter complete, he took up his keys from the chest of drawers, dropping them into his pocket, and left the room with the envelope in hand, quickly hurrying down the stairs.
His hand grasped the handle of the front door, a thought playing with his mind, not so much that he'd forgotten anything, but that there was something else he should do while he was out on his way to post the letter. As he stood there for a moment, just a moment, wondering, he realised that actually, he really was rather tired from his sleepless night of writing. And after all, there was no collection from the post-box for some hours. Perhaps a rest would suit him, and he might even recall that other task on his mind. He placed the letter by the front door, ready to be taken up, then headed back upstairs and climbed into bed without a thought for a change of clothes. Soon he was asleep, as one hand slipped from the bed to hang down, fingers splaying to show the dark blue of ink stains.
By the door, the letter sat, undelivered. But not alone. Because it shared its new home with a thousand more envelopes, all well sealed and neatly addressed, all waiting to be posted once their author found the moment. It’s a wonder he couldn’t hear the heartfelt words trapped within, pleading for their freedom. It's a wonder he didn't notice or trip over the mound every time he crossed his hallway, but of course, he wasn't a very organised man, away from his writing desk. His mind tended to be oblivious of any other mess, for there was nothing more important to him than being certain his work was perfect. He was an excellent letter writer, and he’d never written a letter he was ashamed to have sent. Then again, he’d never sent a letter.
Humans do have a certain knack to forget what matters most.
