Oh Silly Frenchman,

We write to each other with a relentlessness I haven't seen since my childhood scribblings to the next door neighbor with whom I was madly in love. Her blonde hair swayed behind her as she raced back and forth across the lawn, the sprinkler spraying long lines of cold water down her legs. I watched her from the window as she and her sister played silly games- grabbing each others' hands and spinning until they both fell down on the soaked lawn.

I remember all of our lengthy bar talks that almost ended in brawling, how you could always bring a girl home and I would sit, arms stretched out looking down between my legs at the bar. And the bartender would tap me and tell me, "It's time." And you would be long gone with some girl and I had taken it for granted that you would be there. I had forever expected you to come back, laugh and say, "It was always you." But it never was me, was it?

Sometimes, I would leave with someone, drown myself in some other person's smell, some other person's words. And yet, it was only your words which would linger- astutely serious and yet sometimes lost in a language that isn't entirely yours. It's funny, that. How could I, the king god of judging people by words- by their opinions of words and their use of them and their dedication to them, how could I- of all people- worship so someone who thinks in a foreign tongue, someone who is not constantly filled to the brim with a love of English?

I would love to love another language and I do, some, when I get to speak it. But, it is English which drives me, English which feeds me, English which sustains me. And as it has always been. English has been the driving force of my relationships. It has been the exchange of words both written and spoken that has been the essence of all the things that matter.  It has only ever been in the exchange of real words that love is built. To be honest, anyone I have ever loved I have loved just as much in words as in actions, just as much in letters as in caresses.

Let us continue to spill out words to each other and if you must do it in French I would understand. Sometimes I wish you would write me a long, lengthy, literary letter in French, just so that I could get a feeling for the tone and rhythm of your thoughts.

Newly,

Fernando