I almost didn’t pick up the dirty half-torn paper, its corner frozen, salted and sealed in the February muck. But I just couldn’t help myself. I leaned down, tugged, chipped at the ice, rock salt burning my fingertips, and pulled a piece of someone else’s life right up into my hand. The salt still burned in the cold air and I shoved my fingertips into my mouth in spite of the dirt.

Dear Michael, I read:

I wish I could have waited to tell you this . . .

My heart races just a little. Is it good news? Or bad? I have to stop my cheating eyes from sliding down the page—but then I give myself just the tiniest slice of permission, turn it over and skip to the very end, just so I know who is speaking.

Love, Lissa. Ok then.

Dear Michael,

I wish I could have waited to tell you this,
but I’ve already waited too long.

My shoulders fall. Here I am, sitting in my car in the middle of a parking lot, reading some poor Michael’s Dear John letter. . . .

I told you I wasn’t good at this, any of this.
It’s not your fault, and I tried I really tried
but going on like this isn’t fair to you. . . .

Lissa is a saint, or trying to soothe her own guilt, I think.

You deserve someone better than me, someone who can really commit to the future and to all the things that are important to you.

I don’t want anything from you, most of the stuff is yours anyway.

I hope you will take care of Nell for a little while until I get a place to stay.

I am a cat person; therefore Nell is a cat. Not a child, no, I would have to despise Lissa for that. And not a dog; she has already admitted to not being able to contend with commitment, and dogs require more of that than cats.

I want you to know—this is not about Nick. Please leave him out of it. You and I just have nothing in common. We never really have. But, I have to be honest, it was the roses that finally did it. You KNOW how I feel about them, about all those South American women breathing in pesticides, fingers bleeding. It was never about Nick. It’s about you not listening.

The letter grows heavier in my hands, and I suspect it probably is about Nick. His name was written with a thoughtful pause, a small circle dotting the “i.” Michael has no circle of adoration above his “i.” I wonder if Lissa might have suffered another holiday’s worth of roses if it wasn’t for Nick. But who could blame her?

The Nick that I envision has a favorite blue sweater that feels as soft as a kiss. He would never buy roses on an anniversary, instead picking ragged daisies along the road on the way home. Later, after picking her up, he takes a seemingly random right turn, bringing Lissa to a meadow ripe with wildflowers for an impromptu picnic. He pulls two plastic glasses and a bottle of wine from a basket behind the seat of his truck. She watches him tear off pieces of hearty bread and slice hard aged cheese with his pocket knife, handing them to her, letting his fingertips linger on hers for long moments. He might tuck one of the daisies behind her ear as she giggles and then, laughing, pull her down into the tall grass on top of him.

I look out the car window to see if anyone has caught me in my moment of imaginary voyeurism and then read on.

Michael, I never wanted to hurt you, and I know it’s cowardly to leave you a note like this, but I couldn’t do this face to face. I’ve tried to tell you for a long time, but you haven’t been able to hear me.

I’ll be in touch about Nell. Please remember to feed her in the morning not at night.

Love,

Lissa

Poor Michael, never “Mike,” buyer of lethal roses. I bet he never even saw this train coming. After all, I reason, he still needs to be reminded when to feed the cat. The Michael I picture dons oxfords and polo shirts, not soft, worn sweaters. No favorite color stands out in his pale closet. He understands stock market tendencies and fair market value, has a clean car and is always on time. Michael never cheated, came home late, drank too much or left much of a mess. He had her father’s secret blessing. But he never let any cracks in perfection, his or hers, slide off, blowing into corners or under the couch to be found later, turned over and smiled fondly upon like a lost postcard. Never let his heart spill a just little over the top of the glass, leaving marks on the table for future reference. Never left any traces of himself in his wake of dead roses. If he had, perhaps Lissa could have forgiven those roses one last time.