I arrived home late last night.
Tired and cold, toes frozen in shoes that have been anticipating spring.
I picked up the mail that was scattered on the floor by the front door, dropping the letters and solicits for people who no longer live here.
Among the bills there was one letter. No return address. No name. It felt light.
I didn’t recognize the handwriting on the envelope.
I fell heavy onto the couch, looking at the envelope, ignoring the cat.
I opened it, looked over the small letter, no name, no clue as to where it came from. In shaky, rushed handwriting it started “You don’t know me, and why should you?”
You don’t know me, and why should you?
I am nothing, no one. Just a simple man nearing the end of his days.
I don’t like noise. At all. My ship exploded during the war and any bit of noise sets off an unbearable ringing in my ears.
Oh, but how long can a man go on by himself?
Truly, sir, I ask you.
Hermitage is nothing to be proud of.
I would like a wife.
My only contact is with my barber and my horrible nephew. An opera singer.
Can you believe that? An opera singer. There isn’t a quiet note sung in opera.
You seem to be able to find the impossible.
Can you find me a wife? A quiet wife?
I need someone with whom I can share the silence of life with.
And that was it. No signature. Just a strange request from a strange man.
So there you have it, readers.
A man looking for a quiet wife.
Looking for someone to live and die for, to be there when one grows cold, to close one’s eyes and fold one’s hands.
Yes. that would be good.