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Room | Sep 20 2005

Her letter lies unopened on the kitchen table. He doesn’t know what it says, and so it could say almost anything. This remains true until he opens it, when all possibilities dissolve into a single reality.

Right now he doesn’t want that to happen, which is strange in a sense because his last thought before opening the mailbox was of how much he wanted her letter to be inside, of how long he had waited, of how even bad news would be better than no news because at least it would be news.

One hears of people who avoid certain tests for fear they may have the disease. The logic is familiar: until one receives confirmation one way or another, one doesn’t have anything. This is despite the fact that the test changes nothing: one either does or doesn’t have the disease. Similarly her letter already says what it says, and his delay changes nothing.

He’s held off until now (this is what he tells himself) to give himself time to prepare, by which he means, prepare for the worst.

At the moment he finally begins to read, he will step into an unknown room, one in which nearly anything is possible, although some things are more likely than others. For now he sits outside that room, in a kind of waiting area, readying himself.